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THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 



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H7EC, SUB ALTARI SITA SEMPITERNO, 

LAPSIBUS NOSTRIS VeniaM PRECATUR, 

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BENZIGER BROTHERS 

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A staircase in the Catacombs, 








PREFACE 


When the plan of the Popular Catholic Library was formed, 
the author of the following little work was consulted upon it. 
He not only approved of the design, but ventured to suggest, 
among others, a series of tales illustrative of the condition of 
the Church in different periods of her past existence. One, for 
instance, might be called “The Church of the Catacombs;” 
a second, “The Church of the Basilicas” — each comprising 
three hundred years; a third would be on “The Church of the 
Cloister ; ” and then, perhaps, a fourth might be added, called 
“ The Church of the Schools.” 

In proposing this sketch, he added — perhaps the reader will 
find indiscreetly — that he felt half inclined to undertake the 
first, by way of illustrating: theAproposed plan. He was taken 
at his word, and urged strongly to begin the work. After some 
reflection, he consented ; but with an understanding, that it was 
not to be an occupation, but only the recreation of leisure hours. 
With this condition, the work was commenced early in this year, 
and it has been carried on entirely on that principle. 

It has, therefore, been written at all sorts of times and in all 
sorts of places ; early and late, when no duty urged, in scraps 
and fragments of time, when the body was too fatigued or the 
mind too worn for heavier occupation ; in the roadside inn, in 
the halt of travel, in strange houses, in every variety of situa- 
tion and circumstances — sometimes trying ones. It has thus 
been composed bit by bit, in portions varying from ten lines 
to half-a-dozen pages at most, and generally with few books or 
resources at hand. But once begun, it has proved what it was 
taken for, — a recreation, and often a solace and a sedative ; 
from the memories it has revived, the associations it has re- 
newed, the scattered and broken remnants of old studies and 


Vlll 


PREFACE 


early readings which it has combined, and by the familiarity 
which it has cherished with better times and better things than 
surround us in our age. 

Why need the reader be told all this ? For two reasons : 

' First, this method of composition may possibly be reflected 
on the work ; and he may find it patchy and ill-assorted, or 
not well connected in its parts. If so, this account will explain 
the cause. 

Secondly, he will thus be led not to expect a treatise or 
a learned work even upon ecclesiastical antiquities. Nothing 
would have been easier than to cast an air of erudition over 
this little book, and fill half of each page with notes and refer- 
ences. But this was never the writer’s idea. His desire was 
rather to make his reader familiar with the usages, habits, con- 
dition, ideas, feeling, and spirit of the early ages of Christianity. 
This required a certain acquaintance with places and objects 
connected with the period, and some familiarity, more habitual 
than learned, with the records of the time. For instance, such 
writings as the Acts of Primitive Martyrs should have been fre- 
quently read, so as to leave impressions on the author’s mind, 
rather than have been examined scientifically and critically for 
mere antiquarian purposes. And so, such places or monuments 
as have to be explained should seem to stand before the eye of 
the describer, from frequently and almost casually seeing them, 
rather than have to be drawn from books. 

Another source of instruction has been freely used. Any 
one acquainted with the Roman Breviary must have observed, 
that in the offices of certain saints a peculiar style prevails, 
which presents the holy persons commemorated in a distinct 
and characteristic form. This is not the result so much of any 
continuous narrative, as of expressions put into their mouths, 
or brief descriptions of events in their lives, repeated often 
again and again, in antiphons, responsoria to lessons, and even 
versicles ; till they put before us an individuality, a portrait 
clear and definite of singular excellence. To this class belong 
the offices of SS. Agnes, Agatha, Caecilia, and Lucia, and those 
of St. Clement and St. Martin. Each of these saints stands out 
before our minds with distinct features; almost as if we had 
seen and known them, 


PREFACE 


IX 


If, for instance, we take the first that we have named, we 
clearly draw out the following circumstances. She is evidently 
pursued by some heathen admirer, whose suit for her hand she 
repeatedly rejects. Sometimes she tells him that he is fore- 
stalled by another, to whom she is betrothed ; sometimes she 
describes this object of her choice under various images, repre- 
senting him even as the object of homage to sun and moon. 
On another occasion she describes the rich gifts, or the beauti- 
ful garlands with which he has adorned her, and the chaste 
caresses by which he has endeared himself to her. Then, at last, 
as if more importunately pressed, she rejects the love of perish- 
able man, “the food of death,” and triumphantly proclaims 
herself the spouse of Christ. Threats are used, but she declares 
herself under the protection of an angel who will shield her. 

This history is as plainly written by the fragments of her 
office, as a word is by scattered letters brought and joined 
together. But throughout, one discerns another peculiarity, 
and a truly beautiful one in her character. It is clearly repre- 
sented to us, that the saint had ever before her the unseen 
Object of her love, saw Him, heard Him, felt Him, and enter- 
tained, and had returned, a real affection, such as hearts on 
earth have for one another. She seems to walk in perpetual 
vision, almost in ecstatic fruition, of her Spouse’s presence. 
He has actually put a ring upon her finger, has transferred 
the blood from His own cheek to hers, has crowned her with 
budding roses. Her eye is really upon Him, with unerring 
gaze, and returned looks of gracious love. 

What writer that introduced the person would venture to 
alter the character? Who would presume to attempt one at 
variance with it ? Or who would hope to draw a portrait more 
life-like and more exquisite than the Church has done ? For, 
putting aside all inquiry as to the genuineness of the acts by 
which these passages are uggested, and still more waiving 
the question whether the hard critical spirit of a former age too 
lightly rejected such ecclesiastical documents, as Gueranger 
thinks, it is clear that the Church, in her office, intends to 
place before us a certain type of high virtue embodied in the 
character of that saint. The writer of the following pages 
considered himself therefore bound to adhere to this view. 


X 


PREFACE 


Whether these objects have been attained, it is for the reader 
to judge. At any rate, even looking at the amount of infor- 
mation to be expected from a work in this form, and one in- 
tended for general reading, a comparison between the subjects 
introduced, either formally or casually, and those given in any 
elementary work, such as Fleury’s “ Manners of the Christians,” 
which embraces several centuries more, will show that as much 
positive knowledge on the practices and belief of that early 
period is here imparted as it is usual to communicate in a 
more didactic form. 

At the same time, the reader must remember that this 
book is not historical. It takes in but a period of a few months, 
extended in some concluding chapters. It consists rather of a 
series of pictures than of a narrative of events. Occurrences, 
therefore, of different epochs and different countries have been 
condensed into a small space. Chronology has been sacrificed 
to this purpose. The date of Dioclesian’s edict has been anti- 
cipated by two months ; the martyrdom of St. Agnes by a year ; 
the period of St. Sebastian, though uncertain, has been brought 
down later. All that relates to Christian topography has been 
kept as accurate as possible. A martyrdom has been trans- 
ferred from Imola to Fondi. 

It was necessary to introduce some view of the morals and 
opinions of the pagan world, as a contrast to those of Chris- 
tians. But their worst aspect has been carefully suppressed, 
as nothing could be admitted here which the most sensitive 
Catholic eye would shrink from contemplating. It is, indeed, 
earnestly desired that this little work, written solely for recrea- 
tion, be read also as a relaxation from graver pursuits; but 
that, at the same time, the reader may rise from its perusal 
with a feeling that his time has not been lost, nor his mind 
occupied with frivolous ideas. Rather let it be hoped that 
some admiration and love may be inspired by it of those primi- 
tive times, which an over-excited interest in later and more 
brilliant epochs of the Church is too apt to diminish or obscure. 




1 


\ 


CONTENTS 


PART 1.— PEACE 

CHAP * PAGE 

I. THE CHRISTIAN HOUSE ...... I 

II. THE MARTYR’S BOY 4 

III. THE DEDICATION 9 

IV. THE HEATHEN HOUSEHOLD 1 3 

V. THE VISIT 20 

VI. THE BANQUET 24 

VII. POOR AND RICH 29 

VIII. THE FIRST DAY’S CONCLUSION 3 7 

IX. MEETINGS ......... 40 

X. OTHER MEETINGS 49 

XI. A TALK WITH THE READER 58 

XII. THE WOLF AND THE FOX . . . . .63 

XIII. CHARITY 67 

XIV. EXTREMES MEET 70 

XV. CHARITY RETURNS 76 

XVI. THE MONTH OF OCTOBER 78 

XVII. THE CHRISTIAN COMMUNITY 89 

XVIII. TEMPTATION 98 

XIX. THE FALL 102 

PART II.— CONFLICT 

I. DIOGENES Ill 

II. THE CEMETERIES . 119 

III. WHAT DIOGENES COULD NOT TELL ABOUT THE 

CATACOMBS ’. . 1 26 

IV. WHAT DIOGENES DID TELL ABOUT THE CATACOMBS 1 32 


xi 


Xll 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAGE 

V. ABOVE GROUND . . .• 1 38 

VI. DELIBERATIONS 141 

VII. DARK DEATH 1 47 

VIII. DARKER STILL 1 50 

IX. THE FALSE BROTHER 1 53 

X. THE ORDINATION IN DECEMBER . . . .156 

XI. THE VIRGINS l6l 

XII. THE NOMENTAN VILLA 1 66 

XIII. THE EDICT 170 

XIV. THE DISCOVERY 176 

XV. EXPLANATIONS 179 

XVI. THE WOLF IN THE FOLD 183 

XVII. THE FIRST FLOWER 1 92 

XVIII. RETRIBUTION 1 98 

XIX. TWOFOLD REVENGE 206 

XX. THE PUBLIC WORKS 213 

XXL THE PRISON 21 7 

XXII. THE VIATICUM . 221 

XXIII. THE FIGHT 230 

XXIV. THE CHRISTIAN SOLDIER 236 

XXV. THE RESCUE 240 

XXVI. THE REVIVAL 248 

XXVII. THE SECOND CROWN 253 

XXVIII. THE CRITICAL DAY : ITS FIRST PART . . 257 

XXIX. THE SAME DAY : ITS SECOND PART . . . 264 

XXX. THE SAME DAY : ITS THIRD PART . . • . . 273 

XXXI. THE PRIEST AND PHYSICIAN 285 

XXXII. THE SACRIFICE ACCEPTED . . . . . 289 

XXXIII. MIRIAM’S HISTORY 296 

XXXIV. BRIGHT DEATH 302 


PART III.— VICTORY 

I. THE STRANGER FROM THE EAST . . . . 310 

II. THE STRANGER IN ROME. 314 

III. AND LAST . . . 317 


FABIOLA; 

OR, 

THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


PART FIRST— PEACE 
CHAPTER I 

THE CHRISTIAN HOUSE 

It is on an afternoon in September of the year 302 that we 
invite our reader to accompany us through the streets of Rome. 
The sun has declined, and is about two hours from his setting; 
the day is cloudless, and its heat has cooled, so that multitudes 
are issuing from their houses, and making their way towards 
Caesar’s gardens on one side, or Sallust’s on the other, to enjoy 
their evening walk, and learn the news of the day. 

But the part of the city to which we wish to conduct our 
friendly reader is that known by the name of the Campus 
Martius. It comprised the flat alluvial plain between the 
seven hills of older Rome and the Tiber. Before the close 
of the republican period, this field, once left bare for the 
athletic and warlike exercises of the people, had begun to be 
encroached upon by public buildings. Pompey had erected 
in it his theatre ; soon after, Agrippa raised the Pantheon 
and its adjoining baths. But gradually it became occupied 
by private dwellings ; while the hills, in the early empire the 
aristocratic portion of the city, were seized upon for greater 
edifices. Thus the Palatine, after Nero’s fire, became almost 
too small for the Imperial residence and its adjoining Circus 
Maximus. The Esquiline was usurped by Titus’s baths, built 
on the ruins of the Golden House, the Aventine by Caracalla’s ; 

A 


2 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


and at the period of which we write, the Emperor Dioclesian 
was covering the space sufficient for many lordly dwellings by 
the erection of his Thermae 1 on the Quirinal, not far from 
Sallust’s garden just alluded to. 

The particular spot in the Campus Martius to which we 
will direct our steps is one whose situation is so definite that 
we can accurately describe it to any one acquainted with the 
topography of ancient or modern Rome. In republican times 
there was a large square space in the Campus Martius, sur- 
rounded by boarding, and divided into pens, in which the 
Comitia , or meetings of the tribes of the people, were held, 
for giving their votes. This was called the Septa , or Ovile , 
from its resemblance to a sheepfold. Augustus carried out 
a plan, described by Cicero in a letter to Atticus, 2 of trans- 
forming this homely contrivance into a magnificent and solid 
structure. The Septa Julia , as it was thenceforth called, was 
a splendid portico of 1000 by 500 feet, supported by columns, 
and adorned with paintings. Its ruins are clearly traceable; 
and it occupied the space now covered by the Doria and 
Verospi palaces (running thus along the present Corso), the 
Roman College, the Church of St. Ignatius, and the Oratory 
of the Caravita. 

The house to which we invite our reader is exactly opposite, 
and on the east side of this edifice, including in its area the 
present church of St. Marcellus, whence it extended back 
towards the foot of the Quirinal hill. It is thus found to 
cover, as noble Roman houses did, a considerable extent of 
ground. From the outside it presents but a blank and dead 
appearance. The walls are plain, without architectural orna- 
ment, not high, and scarcely broken by windows. In the 
middle of one side of this quadrangle is a door, in antis , that 
is, merely relieved by a tympanum or triangular cornice, rest- 
ing on two half columns. Using our privilege as “artists 
of fiction,” of invisible ubiquity, we will enter in with our 
friend, or “ shadow,” as he would have been anciently called. 
Passing through the porch, on the pavement of which we read 
with pleasure, in mosaic, the greeting Salve, or Welcome, 
we find ourselves in the atrium , or first court of the house, 
surrounded by a portico or colonnade. 3 

In the centre of the marble pavement a softly warbling jet 
of pure water, brought by the Claudian aqueduct from the 

1 Hot-baths. 2 Lib. iv. ep. 16. 

3 The Pompeian Court in the Crystal Palace will have familiarised many 
readers with the forms of an ancient house. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 3 

Tusculan hills, springs into the air, now higher, now lower, and 
falls into an elevated basin of red marble, over the sides of 
which it flows in downy waves ; and before reaching its lower 
and wider recipient, scatters a gentle shower on the rare and 
brilliant flowers placed in elegant vases around. Under the 
portico we see furniture disposed, of a rich and sometimes rare 
character ; couches inlaid with ivory, and even silver ; tables 
of oriental woods, bearing candelabra, lamps, and other house- 
hold implements of bronze or silver ; delicately chased busts, 
vases, tripods, and objects of mere art. On the walls are 
paintings evidently of a former period, still, however, retaining 
all their brightness of colour and freshness of execution. These 
are separated by niches with statues, representing, indeed, like 
the pictures, mythological or historical subjects, but we cannot 
help observing, that nothing meets the eye which could offend 
the most delicate mind. Here and there an empty niche, or 
a covered painting, proves that this is not the result of 
accident. 

As outside the columns, the coving roof leaves a large square 
opening in its centre, called the impluvium , there is drawn 
across it a curtain, or veil of dark canvas, which keeps out the 
sun and rain. An artificial twilight therefore alone enables us 
to see all that we have described, but it gives greater effect to 
what is beyond. Through an arch, opposite to the one whereby 
we have entered, we catch a glimpse of an inner and still 
richer court, paved with variegated marbles, and adorned with 
bright gilding. The veil of the opening above, which, how- 
ever, here is closed with thick glass or talc ( lapis specularis ), 
has been partly withdrawn, and admits a bright but softened 
ray from the evening sun on to the place, where we see, 
for the first time, that we are in no enchanted hall, but in an 
inhabited house. 

Beside a table, just outside the columns of Phrygian marble, 
sits a matron not beyond the middle of life, whose features, 
noble yet mild, show traces of having passed through sorrow 
at some earlier period. But a powerful influence has subdued 
the recollection of it, or blended it with a sweeter thought ; 
and the two always come together, and have long dwelt united 
in her heart. The simplicity of her appearance strangely con- 
trasts with the richness of all around her ; her hair, streaked 
with silver, is left uncovered and unconcealed by any artifice ; 
her robes are of the plainest colour and texture, without em- 
broidery, except the purple ribbon sewed on, and called the 
segmentuniy which denotes the state of widowhood; and not 


4 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

a jewel or precious ornament, of which the Roman ladies 
were so lavish, is to be seen upon her person. The only 
thing approaching to this is a slight gold cord or chain round 
her neck, from which apparently hangs some object, carefully 
concealed within the upper hem of her dress. 

At the time that we discover her she is busily engaged over 
a piece of work, which evidently has no personal use. Upon 
a long rich strip of gold cloth she is embroidering with still 
richer gold thread ; and occasionally she has recourse to one 
or another of several elegant caskets upon the table, from 
which she takes out a pearl, or a gem set in gold, and intro- 
duces it into the design. It looks as if the precious orna- 
ments of earlier days were being devoted to some higher 
purpose. 

But as time goes on, some little uneasiness may be ob- 
served to come over her calm thoughts, hitherto absorbed, 
to all appearance, in her work. She now occasionally raises 
her eyes from it towards the entrance ; sometimes she listens 
for footsteps, and seems disappointed. She looks up towards 
the sun ; then perhaps turns her glance towards a clepsydra or 
water-clock, on a bracket near her; but just as a feeling of 
more serious anxiety begins to make an impression on her 
countenance, a cheerful rap strikes the house-door, and she 
bends forward with a radiant look to meet the welcome 
visitor. 


CHAPTER II 

THE MARTYR’S BOY 

It is a youth full of grace, and sprightliness, and candour, 
that comes forward with light and buoyant steps across the 
atrium, towards the inner hall ; and we shall hardly find time 
to sketch him before he reaches it. He is about fourteen 
years old, but tall for that age, with elegance of form and 
manliness of bearing. His bare neck and limbs are well 
developed by healthy exercise; his features display an open 
and warm heart, while his lofty forehead, round which his 
brown hair naturally curls, beams with a bright intelligence. 
He wears the usual youth’s garment, the short p7'atexta , , 
reaching below the knee, and a golden bulla , or hollow spheroid 
of gold suspended round his neck. A bundle of papers and 
vellum rolls fastened together, and carried by an old servant 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 5 

behind him, shows us that he is just returning home from 
school . 1 

While we have been thus noting him, he has received his 
mother’s embrace, and has sat himself low by her feet. She 
gazes upon him for some time in silence, as if to discover in 
his countenance the cause of his unusual delay, for he is an 
hour late in his return. But he meets her glance with so 
frank a look, and with such a smile of innocence, that every 
cloud of doubt is in a moment dispelled, and she addresses 
him as follows : 

“What has detained you to-day, my dearest boy? No 
accident, I trust, has happened to you on the way ? ” 

“Oh, none, I assure you, sweetest 2 mother; on the con- 
trary, all has been delightful, — so much so, that I can scarcely 
venture to tell you.” 

A look of smiling expostulation drew from the open-hearted 
boy a delicious laugh, as he continued — 

“Well, I suppose I must. You know I am never happy, 
and cannot sleep, if I have failed to tell you all the bad and 
the good of the day about myself.” (The mother smiled 
again, wondering what the bad was.) “I was reading the 
other day that the Scythians each evening cast into an ufn a 
white or a black stone, according as the day had been happy 
or unhappy; if I had to do so, it would serve to mark, in 
white or black, the days on which I have, or have not, an 
opportunity of relating to you all that I have done. But 
to-day, for the first time, I have a doubt, a fear of conscience, 
whether I ought to tell you all.” 

Did the mother’s heart flutter more than usual, as from a 
first anxiety, or was there a softer solicitude dimming her eye, 
that the youth should seize her hand and put it tenderly to his 
lips, while he thus replied : 

“Fear nothing, mother most beloved, your son has done 
nothing that may give you pain. Only say, do you wish to 
hear all that has befallen me to-day, or only the cause of my 
late return home ? ” 

“ Tell me all, dear Pancratius,” she answered ; “ nothing 
that concerns you can be indifferent to me.” 

“ Well, then,” he began, “ this last day of my frequenting 
school appears to me to have been singularly blessed, and yet 

1 This custom suggests to St. Augustine the beautiful idea, that the 
Jews were the padagogi of Christianity, — carrying for it the books which 
they themselves could not understand. 

2 The peculiar epithet of the Catacombs. 


6 


fabiola; or, 


full of strange occurrences. First, I was crowned as the suc- 
cessful competitor in a declamation, which our good master 
Cassianus set us for our work during the morning hours ; and 
this led, as you will hear, to some singular discoveries. The 
subject was, ‘ That the real philosopher should be ever ready 
to die for truth.’ I never heard anything so cold or insipid 
(I hope it is not wrong to say so), as the compositions read by 
my companions. It was not their fault, poor fellows ! what 
truth can they possess, and what inducements can they have, 
to die for any of their vain opinions? But to a Christian, 
what charming suggestions such a theme naturally makes ! 
And so I felt it. My heart glowed, and all my thoughts 
seemed to burn, as I wrote my essay, full of the lessons you 
have taught me, and of the domestic examples that are before 
me. The son of a martyr could not feel otherwise. But 
when my turn came to read my declamation, I found that my 
feelings had nearly fatally betrayed me. In the warmth of my 
recitation, the word ‘Christian’ escaped my lips instead of 
‘philosopher,’ and ‘faith ’ instead of ‘truth.’ At the first mis- 
take, I saw Cassianus start ; at the second, I saw a tear glisten 
in his eye, as bending affectionately towards me, he said, in a 
whisper, ‘ Beware, my child, there are sharp ears listening.’ ” 

“What, then,” interrupted the mother, “is Cassianus a 
Christian ? I chose his school for you because it was in the 
highest repute for learning and for morality ; and now indeed 
I thank God that I did so. But in these days of danger and 
apprehension we are obliged to live as strangers in our own 
land, scarcely knowing the faces of our brethren. Certainly, 
had Cassianus proclaimed his faith, his school would soon 
have been deserted. But go on, my dear boy. Were his 
apprehensions well grounded ? ” 

“ I fear so ; for while the great body of my school-fellows, 
not noticing these slips, vehemently applauded my hearty de- 
clamation, I saw the dark eyes of Corvinus bent scowlingly 
upon me, as he bit his lip in manifest anger.” 

“And who is he, my child, that was so displeased, and 
wherefore ? ” 

“ He is the oldest and strongest, but, unfortunately, the 
dullest boy in the school. But this, you know, is not his 
fault. Only, I know not why, he seems ever to have had an 
ill-will and grudge against me, the cause of which I cannot 
understand.” 

“ Did he say aught to you, or do ? ” 

“Yes, and was the cause of my delay. For when we went 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS / 

forth from school into the field by the river, he addressed me 
insultingly in the presence of our companions, and said, ‘ Come, 
Pancratius, this, I Understand, is the last time we meet here 
(he laid a particular emphasis on the word) ; but I have a long 
score to demand payment of from you. You have loved to 
show your superiority in school over me and others older and 
better than yourself ; I saw your supercilious looks at me as 
you spouted your high-flown declamation to-day; ay, and I 
caught expressions in it which you may live to rue, and that 
very soon; for my father, you well know, is Prefect of the 
city ” (the mother slightly started) ; “and something is preparing 
which may nearly concern you. Before you leave us, I must 
have my revenge. If you are worthy of your name, and it be 
not an empty word , 1 let us fairly contend in more manly strife 
than that of the style and tables . 2 Wrestle with me, or try 
the cestus 3 against me. I burn to humble you as you deserve, 
before these witnesses of your insolent triumphs.’ ” 

The anxious mother bent eagerly forward as she listened, 
and scarcely breathed. “ And what,” she exclaimed, “ did you 
answer, my dear son ? ” 

“ I told him gently that he was quite mistaken ; for never 
had I consciously done anything that could give pain to him 
or any of my school-fellows ; nor did I ever dream of claiming 
superiority over them. ‘ And as to what you propose,’ I added, 
‘you know, Corvinus, that I have always refused to indulge in 
personal combats, which, beginning in a cool trial of skill, end 
in an angry strife, hatred; and wish for revenge. How much 
less could T hink of entering on them now, when you avow 
that you at anxious to begin them with those evil feelings 
which are usually their bad end?’ Our schoolmates had now 
formed a circle round us; and I clearly saw that they were 
all against me, for they had hoped to enjoy some of the 
delights of their cruel games; I therefore cheerfully added, 
‘And now, my comrades, good-bye, and may all happiness 
attend you. I part from you, as I have lived with you, in 
peace.’ ‘ Not so,’ replied Corvinus, now purple in the face 
with fury ; ‘ but ’ ” 

The boy’s countenance became crimsoned, his voice quivered, 

1 The pancratium was the exercise which combined all other personal 
contests — wrestling, boxing, &c. 

2 The implements of writing in schools, the tablets being covered with 
wax, on which the letters were traced by the sharp point, and effaced by 
the flat top of the style. 

3 The hand- bandages worn in pugilistic combats. 


8 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


his body trembled, and, half-choked, he sobbed out “ I cannot 
go on ; I dare not tell the rest ! ” 

“ I entreat you, for God’s sake, and for the love you bear 
your father’s memory,” said the mother, placing her hand upon 
her son’s head, “ conceal nothing from me. I shall never 
again have rest if you tell me not all. What further said or 
did Corvinus ? ” 

The boy recovered himself by a moment’s pause and a silent 
prayer, and then proceeded — 

“‘Not so!’ exclaimed Corvinus, ‘not so do you depart, 
cowardly worshipper of an ass’s head ! 1 You have concealed 
your abode from us, but I will find you out ; till then bear this 
token of my determined purpose to be revenged ! ’ So saying, 
he dealt me a furious blow upon the face, which made me reel 
and stagger, while a shout of savage delight broke forth from 
the boys around us.” 

He burst into tears, which relieved him, and then went on. 

“ Oh, how I felt my blood boil at that moment ; how my 
heart seemed bursting within me ; and a voice appeared to 
whisper in my ear scornfully the name of ‘ coward ! ’ It surely 
was an evil spirit. I felt that I was strong enough — my rising 
anger made me so — to seize my unjust assailant by the throat, 
and cast him gasping on the ground. I heard already the 
shout of applause that would have hailed my victory and 
turned the tables against him. It was the hardest struggle 
of my life; never were flesh and blood so strong within, 
me. O God ! may they never be again so tremendously 
powerful ! ” 

“ And what did you do, then, my darling boy?” gasped forth 
the trembling matron. 

He replied, “ My good angel conquered the demon at my 
side. I thought of my blessed Lord in the house of Caiaphas, 
surrounded by scoffing enemies, and struck ignominiously 
on the cheek, yet meek and forgiving. Could I wish to be 
otherwise ? 2 I stretched forth my hand to Corvinus, and 
said, ‘ May God forgive you, as I freely and fully do ; and 
may He bless you abundantly.’ Cassianus came up at that 
moment, having seen all from a distance, and the youthful 
crowd quickly dispersed. I entreated him, by our common 
faith, now acknowledged between us, not to pursue Corvinus 
for what he had done; and I obtained his promise. And 

1 One of the many calumnies popular among the heathens. 

2 This scene is taken from a real occurrence. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


9 


now, sweet mother,” murmured the boy, in soft, gentle accents, 
into his parent’s bosom, “do you not think I may call this 
a happy day ? ” 


CHAPTER III 

THE DEDICATION 

While the foregoing conversation was held, the day had fast 
declined. An aged female servant now entered unnoticed, 
and lighted the lamps placed on marble and bronze candelabra, 
and quietly retired. A bright light beamed upon the uncon- 
scious group of mother and son, as they remained silent, after 
the holy matron Lucina had answered Pancratius’s last ques- 
tion only by kissing his glowing brow. It was not merely a 
maternal emotion that was agitating her bosom; it was not 
even the happy feeling of a mother who, having trained her 
child to certain high and difficult principles, sees them put 
to their hardest test, and nobly stand it. Neither was it the 
joy of having for her son one, in her estimation, so heroically 
virtuous at such an age ; for surely, with much greater justice 
than the mother of the Gracchi showed her boys to the as- 
tonished matrons of republican Rome as her only jewels, could 
that Christian mother have boasted to the Church of the son 
she had brought up. 

But to her this was an hour of still deeper, or, shall we say, 
sublimer feeling. It was a period looked forward to anxiously 
for years ; a moment prayed for with all the fervour of a 
mother’s supplication. Many a pious parent has devoted her 
infant son from the cradle to the holiest and noblest state that 
earth possesses ; has prayed and longed to see him grow up to 
be, first a spotless Levite, and then a holy priest at the altar ; 
and has watched eagerly each growing inclination, and tried 
gently to bend the tender thought towards the sanctuary of the 
Lord of Hosts. And if this was an only child, as Samuel was 
to Anna, that dedication of all that is dear to her keenest affec- 
tion, may justly be considered as an act of maternal heroism. 
What then must be said of ancient matrons — Felicitas, Sym- 
phorosa, or the unnamed mother of the Maccabees — who 
gave up or offered their children, not one, but many, yea all, 
to be victims whole-burnt, rather than priests, to God ? 

It was some such thought as this which filled the heart of 
Lucina in that hour ; while, with closed eyes, she raised it high 


I O FABIOLA ; OR, 

to heaven, and prayed for strength. She felt as though called 
to make a generous sacrifice of what was dearest to her on 
earth ; and though she had long foreseen it and desired it, it 
was not without a maternal throe that its merit could be gained. 
And what was passing in that boy’s mind, as he too remained 
silent and abstracted? Not any thought of a high destiny 
awaiting him. No vision of a venerable Basilica, eagerly 
visited 1600 years later by the sacred antiquary and the devout 
pilgrim, and giving his name, which it shall bear, to the neigh- 
bouring gate of Rome. 1 No anticipation of a church in his 
honour to rise in faithful ages on the banks of the distant 
Thames, which, even after desecration, should be loved and 
eagerly sought as their last resting-place, by hearts faithful still 
to his dear Rome. 2 No forethought of a silver canopy or 
ciborium , weighing 287 lbs., to be placed over the porphyry 
urn that should contain his ashes, by Pope 'Honorius I. 3 No 
idea that his name would be enrolled in every martyrology, his 
picture, crowned with rays, hung over many altars, as the boy- 
martyr of the early Church. He was only the simple-hearted 
Christian youth, who looked upon it as a matter of course that 
he must always obey God’s law and His Gospel ; and only felt 
happy that he had that day performed his duty, when it came 
under circumstances of more than usual trial. There was no 
pride, no self-admiration in the reflection; otherwise there 
would have been no heroism in his act. 

When he raised again his eyes, after his calm reverie of 
peaceful thoughts, in the new light which brightly filled the 
hall, they met his mother’s countenance gazing anew upon 
him, radiant with a majesty and tenderness such as he never 
recollected to have seen before. It was a look almost of in- 
spiration : her face was as that of a vision ; her eyes what he 
would have imagined an angel’s to be. Silently and almost 
unknowingly he had changed his position, and was kneeling 
before her ; and well he might, for was she not to him as a 
guardian spirit, who had shielded him ever from evil ? or might 
he not well see in her the living saint whose virtues had been 
his model from childhood? Lucina broke the silence in a 
tone full of grave emotion. 

“The time is at length come, my dear child,” she said, 
“ which has long been the subject of my earnest prayer, which 

1 Church and gate of San Pancrazio. 

2 Old St. Pancras’s, the favourite burial-place of Catholics, till they had 
cemeteries of their own. 

3 Anastasius, Biblioth. in vita Honorii, 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


II 


I have yearned for in the exuberance of maternal love. Eagerly 
have I watched in thee the opening germ of each Christian 
virtue, and thanked God as it appeared. I have noted thy 
docility, thy gentleness, thy diligence, thy piety, and thy love 
of God and man. I have seen with joy thy lively faith, and 
thy indifference to worldly things, and thy tenderness to the 
poor. But I have been waiting with anxiety for the hour which 
should decisively show me, whether thou wouldst be content 
with the poor legacy of thy mother’s weakly virtue, or art the 
true inheritor of thy martyred father’s nobler gifts. That hour, 
thank God, has come to-day ! ” 

“ What have I done, then, that should thus have changed or 
raised thy opinion of me ? ” asked Pancratius. 

“ Listen to me, my son. This day, which was to be the last 
of thy school education, methinks that our merciful Lord has 
been pleased to give thee a lesson worth it all ; and to prove 
that thou hast put off the things of a child, and must be treated 
henceforth as a man ; for thou canst think and speak, yea, and 
act as one.” 

“ How dost thou mean, dear mother ? ” 

“ What thou hast told me of thy declamation this morning,” 
she replied, “proves to me how full thy heart must have been 
of noble and generous thoughts ; thou art too sincere and honest 
to have written, and fervently expressed, that it was a glorious 
duty to die for the faith, if thou hadst not believed it, and 
felt it.” 

“And truly I do believe and feel it,” interrupted the boy. 
“ What greater happiness can a Christian desire on earth ? ” 

“Yes, my child, thou sayest most truly,” continued Lucina. 
“But I should not have been satisfied with words. What 
followed afterwards has proved to me that thou canst bear 
intrepidly and patiently, not merely pain, but what I know it 
must have been harder for thy young patrician blood to stand, 
the stinging ignominy of a disgraceful blow, and the scornful 
words and glances of an unpitying multitude. Nay, more ; thou 
hast proved thyself strong enough to forgive and to pray for 
thine enemy. This day thou hast trodden the higher paths of 
the mountain, with the cross upon thy shoulders; one step 
more, and thou wilt plant it on its summit. Thou hast proved 
thyself the genuine son of the martyr Quintinus. Dost thou 
wish to be like him ? ” 

“ Mother, mother ! dearest, sweetest mother ! ” broke out the 
panting youth ; “ could I be his genuine son, and not wish to 
resemble him? Though I never enjoyed the happiness of 


12 


fabiola; or, 


knowing him, has not his image been ever before my mind ? 
Has he not been the very pride of my thoughts ? When each 
year the solemn commemoration has been made of him, as of 
one of the white-robed army that surrounds the Lamb, in whose 
blood he washed his garments, how have my heart and my 
flesh exulted in his glory ; and how have I prayed to him, in 
the warmth of filial piety, that he would obtain for me, not 
fame, not distinction, not wealth, not earthly joy, but what he 
valued more than all these : nay, that the only thing which he 
has left on earth may be applied, as I know he now considers 
it would most usefully and most nobly be.” 

“ What is that, my son ? ” 

“It is his blood,” replied the youth, “which yet remains 
flowing in my veins, and in these only. I know he must wish 
that it too, like what he held in his own, may be poured out 
in love of his Redeemer, and in testimony of his faith.” 

“Enough, enough, my child !” exclaimed the mother, thrill- 
ing with a holy emotion ; “ take from thy neck the badge of 
childhood, I have a better token to give thee.” 

He obeyed, and put away the golden bulla. 

“ Thou hast inherited from thy father,” spoke the mother, 
with still deeper solemnity of tone, “a noble name, a high 
station, ample riches, every worldly advantage. But there is 
one treasure which I have reserved for thee from his inherit- 
ance, till thou shouldst prove thyself worthy of it. I have 
concealed it from thee till now ; though I valued it more than 
gold and jewels. It is now time that I make it over to thee.” 

With trembling hands she drew from her neck the golden 
chain which hung round it ; and for the first time her son saw 
that it supported a small bag or purse richly embroidered, and 
set with gems. She opened it, and drew from it a sponge, 
dry indeed, but deeply stained. 

“ This, too, is thy father’s blood, Pancratius,” she said, with 
faltering voice and streaming eyes. “I gathered it myself 
from his death-wound, as, disguised, I stood by his side, and 
saw him die from the wounds he had received for Christ.” 

She gazed upon it fondly, and kissed it fervently ; and her 
gushing tears fell on it, and moistened it once more. And 
thus liquefied again, its colour glowed bright and warm, as if 
it had only just left the martyr’s heart. 

The holy matron put it to her son’s quivering lips, and they 
were empurpled with its sanctifying touch. He venerated the 
sacred relic with the deepest emotions of a Christian and a 
son ; and felt as if his father’s spirit had descended into him, 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 3 

and stirred to its depths the full vessel of his heart, that its 
waters might be ready freely to flow. The whole family thus 
seemed to him once more united. Lucina replaced her treasure 
in its shrine, and hung it round the neck of her son, saying : 
“ When next it is moistened, may it be from a nobler stream 
than that which gushes from a weak woman’s eyes ! ” But 
heaven thought not so ; and the future combatant was anointed, 
and the future martyr was consecrated, by the blood of his father 
mingled with his mother’s tears. 


CHAPTER IV 

THE HEATHEN HOUSEHOLD 

While the scenes described in the three last chapters were 
taking place, a very different one presented itself in another 
house, situated in the valley between the Quirinal and Esqui- 
line hills. It was that of Fabius, a man of the equestrian order, 
whose family, by farming the revenues of Asiatic provinces, 
- had amassed immense wealth. His house was larger and more 
splendid than the one we have already visited. It contained 
a third large peristyle, or court, surrounded by immense apart- 
ments; and besides possessing many treasures of European 
art, it abounded with the rarest productions of the East. 
Carpets from Persia were laid on the ground, silks from China, 
many-coloured stuffs from Babylon, and gold embroidery from 
India and Phrygia covered the furniture ; while curious works 
in ivory and in metals, scattered about, were attributed to the 
inhabitants of islands beyond the Indian Ocean, of monstrous 
form and fabulous descent. 

Fabius himself, the owner of all this treasure and of large 
estates, was a true specimen of an easy-going Roman, who was 
determined thoroughly to enjoy this life. In fact, he never 
dreamt of any other. Believing in nothing, yet worshipping, 
as a matter of course, on all proper occasions, whatever deity 
happened to have its turn, he passed for a man as good as his 
neighbours ; and no one had a right to exact more. The greater 
part of his day was passed at one or other of the great baths, 
which, besides the purposes implied in their name, comprised 
in their many adjuncts the equivalents of clubs, reading-rooms, 
gambling-houses, tennis-courts, and gymnasiums. There he 
took his bath, gossiped, read, and whiled away his hours; 


14 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


or sauntered for a time into the Forum to hear some orator 
speaking, or some advocate pleading, or into one of the many 
public gardens, whither the fashionable world of Rome repaired. 
He returned home to an elegant supper, not later than our 
dinner ; where he had daily guests, either previously invited, 
or picked up during the day, among the many parasites on the 
look-out for good fare. 

At home he was a kind and indulgent master. His house 
was well kept for him by an abundance of slaves ; and, as 
trouble was what most he dreaded, so long as everything 
was comfortable, handsome, and well-served about him, he let 
things go on quietly, under the direction of his freedmen. 

It is not, however, so much to him that we wish to introduce 
our reader, as to another inmate of his house, the sharer of its 
splendid luxury, and the sole heiress of his wealth. This is his 
daughter, who, according to Roman usage, bears the father’s 
name, softened, however, into the diminutive Fabiola . 1 As 
we have done before, we will conduct the reader at once into 
her apartment. A marble staircase leads to it from the second 
court, over the sides of which extends a suite of rooms, opening 
upon a terrace, refreshed and adorned by a graceful fountain, 
and covered with a profusion of the rarest exotic plants. In 
these chambers is concentrated whatever is most exquisite and 
curious in native and foreign art. A refined taste directing 
ample means, and peculiar opportunities, has evidently presided 
over the collection and arrangement of all around. At this 
moment, the hour of the evening repast is approaching ; and 
we discover the mistress of this dainty abode engaged in pre- 
paring herself, to appear with becoming splendour. 

She is reclining on a couch of Athenian workmanship, inlaid 
with silver, in a room of Cyzicene form ; that is, having glass 
windows to the ground, and so opening on to the flowery 
terrace. Against the wall opposite to her hangs a mirror of 
polished silver, sufficient to reflect a whole standing figure ; on 
a porphyry-table beside it is a collection of the innumerable 
rare cosmetics and perfumes, of which the Roman ladies had 
become so fond, and on which they lavished immense sums . 2 
On another, of Indian sandal-wood, was a rich display of jewels 
and trinkets in their precious caskets, from which to select for 
the day’s use. 

It is by no means our intention, nor our gift, to describe 

1 Pronounced with the accent on the i. 

2 The milk of 500 asses per day was required to furnish Poppsea, Nero’s 
wife, with one cosmetic. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 5 

persons or features; we wish more to deal with minds. We 
will, therefore, content ourselves with saying that Fabiola, now 
at the age of twenty, was not considered inferior in appearance 
to other ladies of her rank, age, and fortune, and had many 
aspirants for her hand But she was a contrast to her father in 
temper and in character. Proud, haughty, imperious, and irri- 
table, she ruled like an empress all that surrounded her, with 
one or two exceptions, and exacted humble homage from all 
that approached her. An only child, whose mother had died 
in giving her birth, she had been nursed and brought up in 
indulgence by her careless, good-natured father ; she had been 
provided with the best masters, had been adorned with every 
accomplishment, and allowed to gratify every extravagant wish. 
She had never known -what it was to deny herself a desire. 

Having been left so much to herself, she had read much, 
and especially in profounder books. She had thus become a 
complete philosopher of the refined, that is, the infidel and 
intellectual epicureanism, which had been long fashionable in 
Rome. Of Christianity she knew nothing, except that she 
understood it to be something very low, material, and vulgar. 
She despised it, in fact, too much to think of inquiring into it. 
And as to Paganism, with its gods, its vices, its fables, and its 
idolatry, she merely scorned it, though outwardly she followed 
it. In fact, she believed in nothing beyond the present life, 
and thought of nothing except its refined enjoyment. But her 
very pride threw a shield over her virtue ; she loathed the 
wickedness of heathen society, as she despised the frivolous 
youths who paid her jealously exacted attention, for she 
found amusement in their follies. She was considered cold 
and selfish, but she was morally irreproachable. 

If at the beginning we seem to indulge in long descriptions, 
we trust that our reader will believe that they are requisite, to 
put him in possession of the state of material and social Rome 
at the period of our narrative ; and will make this the more 
intelligible. And should he be tempted to think that we 
describe things as over-splendid and refined for an age of 
decline in arts and good taste, we beg to remind him that the 
year we are supposed to visit Rome is not as remote from the 
better periods of Roman art, for example, that of the Antonines, 
as our age is from that of Cellini, Raffaele, or Donatello. Yet 
in how many Italian palaces are still preserved works by these 
great artists, fully prized, though no longer imitated ? So, no 
doubt, it was with the houses belonging to the old and wealthy 
families of Rome. 


1 6 pabiola; or, 

We find, then, Fabiola reclining on her couch, holding in 
her left hand a silver mirror with a handle, and in the other a 
strange instrument for so fair a hand. It is a sharp-pointed 
stiletto, with a delicately carved ivory handle, and a gold ring 
to hold it by. This was the favourite weapon with which 
Roman ladies punished their slaves, or vented their passion 
on them, upon suffering the least annoyance, or when irritated 
by pettish anger. Three female slaves are now engaged about 
their mistress. They belong to different races, and have been 
purchased at high prices, not merely on account of their ap- 
pearance, but for some rare accomplishment they are supposed 
to possess. One is a black, not of the degraded negro stock, 
but from one of those races, such as the Abyssinians and 
Numidians, in whom the features are as regular as in the 
Asiatic people. She is supposed to have great skill in herbs, 
and their cosmetic and healing properties, perhaps also in 
more dangerous uses — in compounding philtres, charms, and 
possibly poisons. She is merely known by her national desig- 
nation as Afra. A Greek comes next, selected for her taste in 
dress, and for the elegance and purity of her accent; she is 
therefore called Graia. The name which the third bears, Syra, 
tells us that she comes from Asia ; and she is distinguished for 
her exquisite embroidering, and for her assiduous diligence. 
She is quiet, silent, but completely engaged with the duties 
which now devolve upon her. The other two are garrulous, 
light, and make great pretence about any little thing they do. 
Every moment they address the most extravagant flattery to 
their young mistress, or try to promote the suit of one or other 
of the profligate candidates for her hand, who has best or last 
bribed them. 

“How delighted I should be, most noble mistress,” said 
the black slave, “if I could only be in the triclinium 1 this 
evening as you enter in, to observe the brilliant effect of this 
new stibium 2 on your guests ! It has cost me many trials 
before I could obtain it so perfect : I am sure nothing like it 
has been ever seen in Rome.” 

“As for me,” interrupted the wily Greek, “I should not 
presume to aspire to so high an honour. I should be satisfied 
to look from outside the door, and see the magnificent effect 
of this wonderful silk tunic, which came with the last re- 
mittance of gold from Asia. Nothing can equal its beauty; 
nor, I may add, is its arrangement, the result of my study, 
unworthy of the materials.” 

1 The dining-hall. 


2 Black antimony applied on the eyelids. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS t? 

“ iind you, Syra,” interposed the mistress, with a contemp- 
tuous smile, “ what would you desire ? and what have you to 
praise of your own doing ? ” 

“ Nothing to desire, noble lady, but that you may be ever 
happy; nothing to praise of my own doing, for I am not 
conscious of having done more than my duty,” was the modest 
and sincere reply. 

It did not please the haughty lady, who said, “ Methinks, 
slave, that you are not over given to praise. One seldom hears 
a soft word from your mouth.” 

“And what worth would it be from me,” answered Syra; 
“from a poor servant to a noble dame, accustomed to hear 
it all day long from eloquent and polished lips? Do you 
believe it when you hear it from them ? Do you not despise 
it when you receive it from us ? ” 

A look of spite was darted at her from her two companions. 
Fabiola too was angry at what she thought a reproof. A lofty 
sentiment in a slave ! 

“Have you yet to learn then,” she answered haughtily, 

that you are mine, and have been bought by me at a high 
price, that you might serve me as / please ? I have as good 
a right to the service of your tongue as of your arms ; and if 
it please me to be praised, and flattered, and sung to, by you, 
do it you shall, whether you like it or not. A new idea, indeed, 
that a slave has to have any will but that of her mistress, when 
her very life belongs to her ! ” 

“ True,” replied the handmaid, calmly but with dignity, “ my 
life belongs to you, and so does all else that ends with life — 
time, health, vigour, body, and breath. All this you have 
bought with your gold, and it has become your property. But 
I still hold as my own what no emperor’s wealth can purchase, 
no chains of slavery fetter, no limit of life contain.” 

“ And pray what is that ? ” 

“A soul.” 

“ A soul ! ” re-echoed the astonished Fabiola, who had 
never before heard a slave claim ownership of such a pro- 
perty. “And pray, let me ask you, what you mean by the 
word ? ” 

“I cannot speak philosophical sentences,” answered the 
servant, “ but I mean that inward living consciousness within 
me, which makes me feel to have an existence with, and among, 
better things than surround me, which shrinks sensitively from 
destruction, and instinctively from what is allied to it, as 
disease is to death. And therefore it abhors all flattery, and 


1 8 


fabiola; or, 


it detests a lie. While I possess that unseen gift, and die it 
cannot, either is impossible to me.” 

The other two could understand but little of all this ; so 
they stood in stupid amazement at the presumption of their 
companion. Fabiola, too, was startled ; but her pride soon 
rose again, and she spoke with visible impatience. 

“Where did you learn all this folly?- Who has taught you 
to prate in this manner? For my part, I have studied for 
many years, and have come to the conclusion that all ideas of 
spiritual existences are the dreams of poets or sophists, and as 
such I despise them. Do you, an ignorant, uneducated slave, 
pretend to know better than your mistress ? Or do you really 
fancy, that when, after death, your corpse will be thrown on 
the heap of slaves who have drunk themselves, or have been 
scourged, to death, to be burnt in one ignominious pile, and 
when the mingled ashes have been buried in a common pit, 
you will survive as a conscious being, and have still a life of 
joy and freedom to be lived ? ” 

“ ‘ Non omnis moriar as one of your poets says,” replied 
modestly, but with a fervent look that astonished her mistress, 
the foreign slave; “yes, I hope, nay, I intend to survive all 
this. And more yet; I believe and know that out of that 
charnel-pit, which you have so vividly described, there is a 
hand that will pick out each charred fragment of my frame. 
And there is a power that will call to reckoning the four winds 
of heaven, and make each give back every grain of my dust 
that it has scattered ; and I shall be built up once more in this 
my body, not as yours, or any one’s bondwoman, but free, and 
joyful, and glorious, loving for ever, and beloved. This certain 
hope is laid up in my bosom.” 2 

“ What wild visions of an eastern fancy are these, unfitting 
you for every duty? You must be cured of them. In what 
school did you learn all this nonsense ? I never read of it in 
any Greek or Latin author.” 

“ In one belonging to my own land ; a school in which there 
is no distinction known or admitted between Greek or bar- 
barian, freeman or slave.” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed, with strong excitement, the haughty 
lady, “without waiting even for that future ideal existence 
after death ; already, even now, you presume to claim equality 
with me? Nay, who knows, perhaps superiority over me. 
Come, tell me at once, and without daring to equivocate or 
disguise, if you do so or not ? ” And she sat up in an attitude 

1 Not all of me will die. 2 Job xix. 27. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


19 


of eager expectation. At every word of the calm reply her 
agitation increased; and violent passions seemed to contend 
within her, as Syra said — 

“ Most noble mistress, far superior are you to me in place 
and power, and learning and genius, and in all that enriches 
and embellishes life; and in every grace of form and linea- 
ment, and in every charm of act and speech, high are you 
raised above all rivalry, and far removed from envious thought, 
from one so lowly and so insignificant as I. But if I must 
answer simple truth to your authoritative question” — she 
paused, as faltering ; but an imperious gesture from her mis- 
tress bade her continue — “ then I put it to your own judgment, 
whether a poor slave, who holds an unquenchable conscious- 
ness of possessing within her a spiritual and living intelligence, 
whose measure of existence is immortality, whose only true 
place of dwelling is above the skies, whose only rightful proto- 
type is the Deity, can hold herself inferior in moral dignity, or 
lower in greatness of thought, than one who, however gifted, 
owns that she claims no higher destiny, recognises in herself 
no sublimer end, than what awaits the pretty irrational songsters 
that beat, without hope of liberty, against the gilded bars of 
that cage.” 1 

Fabiola’s eyes flashed with fury; she felt herself, for the 
first time in her life, rebuked, humbled by a slave. She 
grasped the style in her right hand, and made an almost blind 
thrust at the unflinching handmaid. Syra instinctively put 
forward her arm to save her person, and received the point, 
which, aimed upwards from the couch, inflicted a deeper gash 
than she had ever before suffered. The tears started into her 
eyes through the smart of the wound, from which the blood 
gushed in a stream. Fabiola was in a moment ashamed of 
her cruel though unintentional act, and felt still more humbled 
before her servants. 

“ Go, go,” she said to Syra, who was stanching the blood 
with her handkerchief, “go to Euphrosyne, and have the 
wound dressed. I did not mean to hurt you so grievously. 
But stay a moment, I must make you some compensation.” 
Then, after turning over her trinkets on the table, she con- 
tinued, “ Take this ring ; and you need not return here again 
this evening.” 

Fabiola’s conscience was quite satisfied; she had made 
what she considered ample atonement for the injury she had 

1 See the noble answer of Evalpistus, an imperial slave, to the judge, in 
the Acts of St. Justin, ap. Ruinart, tom. i. 


20 


fabiola; or, 

inflicted, in the shape of a costly present to a menial de- 
pendant. And on the following Sunday, in the title 1 of St. 
Pastor, not far from her house, among the alms collected for 
the poor was found a valuable emerald ring, which the good 
priest Polycarp thought must have been the offering of some 
very rich Roman lady; but which He who watched, with 
beaming eye, the alms-coffers of Jerusalem, and noted the 
widow’s mite, alone saw dropped into the chest, by the ban- 
daged arm of a foreign female slave. 


CHAPTER V 

THE VISIT 

During the latter part of the dialogue just recorded, and the 
catastrophe which closed it, there took place an apparition in 
Fabiola’s room, which, if seen by her, would probably have 
cut short the one, and prevented the other. The interior 
chambers in a Roman house were more frequently divided by 
curtains across their entrances, than by doors; and thus it 
was easy, especially during such an excited scene as had just 
taken place, to enter unobserved. This was the case now ; 
and when Syra turned to leave the room, she was almost 
startled at seeing standing, in bright relief before the deep 
crimson door-curtain, a figure, which she immediately recog • 
nised, but which we must briefly describe. 

It was that of a lady, or rather a child not more than twelve 
or thirteen years old, dressed in pure and spotless white, 
without a single ornament about her person. In her counte- 
nance might be seen united the simplicity of childhood with 
the intelligence of a maturer age. There not merely dwelt in 
her eyes that dove-like innocence which the sacred poet de- 
scribes , 2 but often there beamed from them rather an intensity 
of pure affection, as though they were looking beyond all 
surrounding objects, and rested upon one, unseen by all else, 
but to her really present, and exquisitely dear. Her forehead 
was the very seat of candour, open and bright, with undis- 
guising truthfulness ; a kindly smile played about the lips, and 
the fresh, youthful features varied their sensitive expression 
with guileless earnestness, passing rapidly from one feeling to 

1 Church. 

2 “Thy eyes are as those of doves.” — Cant. i. 14. 



With trembling hands she drew from her neck the golden chain.” — Page 12. 
















II ■ 









* 


















































































THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 2 1 

the other, as her warm and tender heart received it. Those 
who knew her believed that she never thought of herself, but 
was divided entirely between kindness to those about her, and 
affection for her unseen love. 

When Syra saw this beautiful vision, like that of an angel, 
before her, she paused for a moment. But the child took her 
hand, and reverently kissed it, saying : “ I have seen all ; 
meet me in the small chamber near the entrance, when I 
go out.” 

She then advanced; and as Fabiola saw her, a crimson 
blush mantled in her cheek ; for she feared the child had been 
witness of her undignified burst of passion. With a cold wave 
of her hand she dismissed her slaves, and then greeted her 
kinswoman, for such she was, with cordial affection. We 
have said that Fabiola’s temper made a few exceptions in its 
haughty exercise. One of these was her old nurse and freed- 
woman Euphrosyne, who directed all her private household ; 
and whose only creed was, that Fabiola was the most perfect 
of beings, the wisest, most accomplished, most admirable 
lady in Rome. Another was her young visitor, whom she 
loved, and ever treated with gentlest affection, and whose 
society she always coveted. 

“ This is really kind of you, dear Agnes,” said the softened 
Fabiola, “ to come at my sudden request, to join our table to- 
day. But the fact is, my father has called in one or two new 
people to dine, and I was anxious to have some one with 
whom I could have the excuse of a duty to converse. Yet I 
own I have some curiosity about one of our new guests. It is 
Fulvius, of whose grace, wealth, and accomplishments I hear 
so much ; though nobody seems to know who or what he is, 
or whence he has sprung up.” 

“ My dear Fabiola,” replied Agnes, “ you know I am always 
happy to visit you, and my kind parents willingly allow me ; 
therefore, make no apologies about that.” 

“ And so you have come to me as usual,” said the other 
playfully, “in your own snow-white dress, without jewel or 
ornament, as if you were every day a bride. You always seem 
to me to be celebrating one eternal espousal. But, good 
heavens ! what is this ? Are you hurt ? Or are you aware 
that there is, right on the bosom of your tunic, a large red 
spot— it looks like blood. If so, let me change your dress 
at once.” 

“ Not for the world, Fabiola ; it is the jewel, the only orna- 
ment I mean to wear this evening. It is blood, and that of a 


22 fabiola; or, 

slave ; but nobler, in my eyes, and more generous, than flows 
in your veins or mine.” 

The whole truth flashed upon Fabiola’s mind. Agnes had 
seen all ; and humbled almost to sickening, she said somewhat 
pettishly, “ Do you then wish to exhibit proof to all the world 
of my hastiness of temper, in over-chastising a forward slave ? ” 

“No, dear cousin, far from it. I only wish to preserve for 
myself a lesson of fortitude, and of elevation of mind, learnt 
from a slave, such as few patrician philosophers can teach us.” 

“ What a strange idea ! Indeed, Agnes, I have often 
thought that you make too much of that class of people. 
After all, what are they ? ” 

“Human beings as much as ourselves, endowed with the 
same reason, the same feelings, the same organisation. Thus 
far you will admit, at any rate, to go no higher. Then they 
form part of the same family ; and if God, from whom comes 
our life, is thereby our Father, He is theirs as much, and con- 
sequently they are our brethren.” 

“ A slave my brother or sister, Agnes ? The gods forbid it ! 
They are our property and our goods ; and I have no notion 
of their being allowed to move, to act, to think, or to feel, 
except as it suits their masters, or is for their advantage.” 

“Come, come,” said Agnes, with her sweetest tones, “do 
not let us get into a warm discussion. You are too candid 
and honourable not to feel, and to be ready to acknowledge, 
that to-day you have been outdone by a slave in all that you 
most admire, — in mind, in reasoning, in truthfulness, and in 
heroic fortitude. Do not answer me; I see it in that tear. 
But, dearest cousin, I will save you from a repetition of your 
pain. Will you grant me my request ? ” 

“ Any in my power.” 

“Then it is, that you will allow me to purchase Syra — I 
think that is her name. You will not like to see her about 
you.” 

“You are mistaken, Agnes. I will master pride for once, 
and own that I shall now esteem her, perhaps almost admire 
her. It is a new feeling in me towards one in her station.” 

“ But I think, Fabiola, I could make her happier than she is.” 

“No doubt, dear Agnes, you have the power of making 
everybody happy about you. I never saw such a household 
as yours. You seem to carry out in practice that strange philo- 
sophy which Syra alluded to, in which there is no distinction 
of freeman and slave. Everybody in your house is always 
smiling, and cheerfully anxious to discharge his duty. And 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


23 

there seems to be no one who thinks of commanding. Come, 
tell me your secret.” (Agnes smiled.) “ I suspect, you little 
magician, that in that mysterious chamber, which you will 
never open for me, you keep your charms and potions by 
which you make everybody and everything love you. If you 
were a Christian, and were exposed in the amphitheatre, I am 
sure the very leopards would crouch and nestle at your feet. 
But why do you look so serious, child ? You know I am only 
joking.” 

Agnes seemed absorbed ; and bent forward that keen and 
tender look which we have mentioned, as though she saw 
before her, nay, as if she heard speaking to her, some one 
delicately beloved. It passed away, and she gaily said, “ Well, 
well, Fabiola, stranger things have come to pass ; and at any 
rate, if aught so dreadful had to happen, Syra would just be 
the sort of person one would like to see near one; so you 
really must let me have her.” 

“For heaven’s sake, Agnes, do not take my words so 
seriously. I assure you they were spoken in jest. I have too 
high an opinion of your good sense to believe such a calamity 
possible. But as to Syra’s devotedness, you are right. When 
last summer you were away, and I was so dangerously ill of 
contagious fever, it required the lash to make the other slaves 
approach me ; while that poor thing would hardly leave me, 
but watched by me, and nursed me day and night, and I 
really believe greatly promoted my recovery.” 

“ And did you not love her for this ? ” 

“ Love her ! Love a slave, child ! Of course, I took care 
to reward her generously, though I cannot make out what she 
does with what I give her. The others tell me she has nothing 
put by, and she certainly spends nothing on herself. Nay, I 
have even heard that she foolishly shares her daily allowance of 
food with a blind beggar-girl. What a strange fancy, to be sure ! ” 

“ Dearest Fabiola,” exclaimed Agnes, “ she must be mine ! 
You promised me my request. Name your price, and let me 
take her home this evening.” 

“Well, be it so, you most irresistible of petitioners. But 
we will not bargain together. Send some one to-morrow to 
see my father’s steward, and all will be right. And now this 
great piece of business being settled between us, let us go 
down to our guests.” 

“ But you have forgotten to put on your jewels.” 

“Never mind them; I will do without them for once. I 
feel no taste for them to-day.” 


24 


fabiola; or, 


CHAPTER VI 

THE BANQUET 

They found, on descending, all the guests assembled in a hall 
below. It was not a state banquet which they were going to 
share, but the usual meal of a rich house, where preparation 
for a tableful of friends was always made. We will therefore 
content ourselves with saying that everything was elegant and 
exquisite in arrangement and material, and we will confine 
ourselves entirely to such incidents as may throw a light upon 
our story. 

When the two ladies entered the exedra or hall, Fabius, 
after saluting his daughter, exclaimed : “ Why, my child, you 
have come down, though late, still scarcely fittingly arranged ! 
You have forgotten your usual trinkets.” 

Fabiola was confused. She knew not what answer to make ; 
she was ashamed of her weakness about her angry display; 
and still more of what she now thought a silly way of punishing 
herself for it. Agnes stepped in to the rescue, and blushingly 
said : “ It is my fault, cousin Fabius, both that she is late and 
that she is so plainly dressed. I detained her with my gossip, 
and no doubt she wishes to keep me in countenance by the 
simplicity of her attire.” 

“You, dear Agnes,” replied the father, “are privileged to 
do as you please. But, seriously speaking, I must say, that 
even with you, this may have answered while you were a mere 
child; now that you are marriageable , 1 you must begin to 
make a little more display, and try to win the affections of 
some handsome and eligible youth. A beautiful necklace, for 
instance, such as you have plenty of at home, would not make 
you less attractive. But you are not attending to me. Come, 
come, I dare say you have some one already in view.” 

During most of this address, which was meant to be 
thoroughly good-natured, as it was perfectly worldly, Agnes 
appeared in one of her abstracted moods, her bewitched looks, 
as Fabiola called them, transfixed, in a smiling ecstasy, as if 
attending to some one else, but never losing the thread of the 
discourse, nor saying anything out of place. She therefore at 
once answered Fabius : “ Oh yes, most certainly, one who has 


1 Twelve was the age for marriage, according to the Roman law. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 25 

already pledged me to him by his betrothal ring, and has 
adorned me with immense jewels .” 1 

“ Really ! ” asked Fabius, “ with what ? ” 

“Why,” answered Agnes, with a look of glowing earnest- 
ness, and in tones of artless simplicity, “he has girded my 
hand and neck with precious gems, and has set in my ears 
rings of peerless pearls.” 2 

“ Goodness ! who can it be ? Come, Agnes, some day you 
must tell me your secret. Your first love, no doubt : may it 
last long and make you happy ! ” 

“ For ever ! ” was her reply, as she turned to join Fabiola, 
and enter with her into the dining-room. It was well she 
had not overheard this dialogue, or she would have been hurt 
to the quick, as thinking that Agnes had concealed the most 
important thought of her age, as she would have considered 
it, from her most loving friend. But while Agnes was defend- 
ing her, she had turned away from her father, and had been 
attending to the other guests. One was a heavy, thick-necked 
Roman sophist, or dealer in universal knowledge, named Cal- 
purnius ; another, Proculus, a mere lover of good fare, often 
at the house. Two more remain, deserving further notice. 
The first of them, evidently a favourite both with Fabiola 
and Agnes, was a tribune, a high officer of the imperial or 
praetorian guard. Though not above thirty years of age, he 
had already distinguished himself by his valour, and enjoyed 
the highest favour with the emperors Dioclesian in the East, 
and Maximian Herculius in Rome. He was free from all 
affectation in manner or dress, though handsome in person ; 
and though most engaging in conversation, he manifestly 
scorned the foolish topics which generally occupied society. 
In short, he was a perfect specimen of a noble-hearted youth, 
full of honour and generous thoughts ; strong and brave, 
without a particle of pride or display in him. 

Quite a contrast to him was the last guest, already alluded 
to by Fabiola, the new star of society, Fulvius. Young, and 
almost effeminate in look, dressed with most elaborate elegance, 
with brilliant rings on every finger, and jewels in his dress, 
affected in his speech, which had a slightly foreign accent, 
overstrained in his courtesy of manners, but apparently good- 
natured and obliging, he had in a short time quietly pushed 

1 “Annulo fidei suae subarrhavit me, et immensis monilibus ornavit 
me.” — Office of St. Agnes. 

2 “ Dexteram meam et collum meum cinxit lapidibus pretiosis, tradidit 
aucibus meis inaestimabiles margaritas.” 


26 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

his way into the highest society of Rome. This was, indeed, 
owing partly to his having been seen at the imperial court, 
and partly to the fascination of his manner. He had arrived 
in Rome accompanied by a single elderly attendant, evidently 
deeply attached to him ; whether slave, freedman, or friend, 
nobody well knew. They spoke together always in a strange 
tongue, and the swarthy features, keen fiery eye, and un- 
amiable expression of the domestic, inspired a certain degree 
of fear in his dependants; for Fulvius had taken an apartment 
in what was called an insula , or house let out in parts, had 
furnished it luxuriously, and had peopled it with a sufficient 
bachelor’s establishment of slaves. Profusion rather than 
abundance distinguished all his domestic arrangements ; and, 
in the corrupted and degraded circle of Pagan Rome, the 
obscurity of his history, and the suddenness of his apparition, 
were soon forgotten in the evidence of his riches, and the 
charm of his loose conversation. A shrewd observer of char- 
acter, however, would soon notice a wandering restlessness of 
eye, and an eagerness of listening attention for all sights and 
sounds around him, which betrayed an insatiable curiosity; 
and, in moments of forgetfulness, a dark scowl, under his knit 
brows, from his flashing eyes, and a curling of the upper 
lip, which inspired a feeling of mistrust, and gave an idea 
that his exterior softness only clothed a character of feline 
malignity. 

The guests were soon at table ; and as ladies sat, while men 
reclined on couches during the repast, Fabiola and Agnes 
were together on one side, the two younger guests last de- 
scribed were opposite, and the master, with his two elder 
friends, in the middle — if these terms can be used to describe 
their position about three parts of a round table; one side 
being left unencumbered by the sigma , 1 or semicircular 
couch, for the convenience of serving. And we may observe, 
in passing, that a table-cloth, a luxury unknown in the times 
of Horace, was now in ordinary use. 

When the first claims of hunger, or the palate, had been 
satisfied, conversation grew more general. 

“ What news to-day at the baths ? ” asked Calpurnius ; “ I 
have no leisure myself to look after such trifles.” 

“Very interesting news indeed,” answered Proculus. “It 
seems quite certain that orders have been received from the 
divine Dioclesian, to finish his Thermae in three years.” 

“ Impossible ! ” exclaimed Fabius. “ I looked in at the 

1 So called from its resemblance to the letter C, the old form of 2. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


27 

works the other day, on my way to Sallust’s gardens, and 
found them very little advanced in the last year. There is 
an immense deal of heavy work to be done, such as carving 
marbles and shaping columns.” 

“ True,” interposed Fulvius ; “ but I know that orders have 
been sent to all parts, to forward hither all prisoners, and all 
persons condemned to the mines in Spain, Sardinia, and even 
Chersonesus, who can possibly be spared, to come and labour 
at the Thermae. A few thousand Christians thus set to the 
work, will soon finish it.” 

“ And why Christians better than other criminals ? ” asked, 
with some curiosity, Fabiola. 

“ Why, really,” said Fulvius, with his most winning smile, 
“ I can hardly give a reason for it ; but the fact is so. Among 
fifty workmen so condemned, I would engage to pick out a 
single Christian.” 

“ Indeed ! ” exclaimed several at once ; “ pray how ? ” 

‘ Ordinary convicts,” answered he, “naturally do not love 
their work, and they require the lash at every step to compel 
them to perform it ; and when the overseer’s eye is off them, 
no work is done. And, moreover, they are, of course, rude, 
sottish, quarrelsome, and querulous. But the Christians, 
when condemned to these public works, seem, on the con- 
trary, to be glad, and are always 'cheerful and obedient. I 
have seen young patricians so occupied in Asia, whose hands 
had never before handled a pickaxe, and whose weak shoulders 
had never borne a weight, yet working hard, and as happy, 
to all appearance, as when at home. Of course, for all that, 
the overseers apply the lash and the stick very freely to them ; 
and most justly ; because it is the will of the divine emperors 
that their lot should be made as hard as possible; but still 
they never complain.” 

“I cannot say that I admire this sort of justice,” replied 
Fabiola ; “ but what a strange race they must be ! I am 
most curious to know what can be the motive or cause of this 
stupidity, or unnatural insensibility, in these Christians ? ” 

Proculus replied, with a facetious look : “ Calpurnius here 
no doubt can tell us; for he is a philosopher, and I hear 
could declaim for an hour on any topic, from the Alps to 
an ant-hill.” 

Calpurnius, thus challenged, and thinking himself highly 
complimented, solemnly gave mouth: “The Christians,” said 
he, “ are a foreign sect, the founder of which flourished many 
ages ago in Chaldea. His doctrines were brought to Rome 


28 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


at the time of Vespasian by two brothers named Peter and 
Paul. Some maintain that these were the same twin brothers 
as the Jews called Moses and Aaron, the second of whom sold 
his birthright to his brother for a kid, the skin of which he 
wanted to make chirothecaz 1 of. But this identity I do not 
admit; as it is recorded in the mystical books of the Jews, 
that the second of these brothers, seeing the other’s victims 
give better omens of birds than his own, slew him, as our 
Romulus did Remas, but with the jawbone of an ass; for 
which he was hung by King Mardochaeus of Macedon, upon 
a gibbet fifty cubits high, at the suit of their sister Judith. 
However, Peter and Paul coming, as I said, to Rome, the 
former was discovered to be a fugitive slave of Pontius Pilate, 
and was crucified by his master’s orders on the Janiculum. 
Their followers, of whom they had many, made the cross their 
symbol, and adore it ; and they think it the greatest honour to 
suffer stripes, and even ignominious death, as the best means 
of being like their teachers, and, as they fancy, of going to 
them in a place somewhere among the clouds .” 2 

This lucid explanation of the origin of Christianity was lis- 
tened to with admiration by all except two. The young officer 
gave a piteous look towards Agnes, which seemed to say, 
“Shall I answer the goose, or shall I laugh outright?” But 
she put her finger on her lips, and smiled imploringly for 
silence. 

“ Well, then, the upshot of it is,” observed Proculus, “ that 
the Thermae will be finished soon, and we shall have glorious 
sport. Is it not said, Fulvius, that the divine Dioclesian will 
himself come to the dedication ? ” 

“ It is quite certain ; and so will there be splendid festivals 
and glorious games. But we shall not have to wait so long ; 
already, for other purposes, have orders been sent to Numidia 
for an unlimited supply of lions and leopards to be ready before 
winter.” Then turning round sharp to his neighbour, he said, 
bending a keen eye upon his countenance : “ A brave soldier 
like you, Sebastian, must be delighted with the noble spec- 
tacles of the amphitheatre, especially when directed against the 
enemies of the august emperors, and of the republic.” 

The officer raised himself upon his couch, looked on his 
interrogator with an unmoved, majestic countenance, and 
answered calmly : 

“ Fulvius, I should not deserve the title which you give me, 
could I contemplate with pleasure, in cold blood, the struggle, 

1 Gloves. 2 Lucien : De Morte Peregrini. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


29 


if it deserve the name, between a brute beast, and a helpless 
child or woman, for such are the spectacles which you call 
noble. No, I will draw my sword willingly against any enemy 
of the princes or the state; but I would as readily draw it 
against the lion or the leopard that should rush, even by im- 
perial order, against the innocent and defenceless.” Fulvius 
was starting up; but Sebastian placed his strong hand upon 
his arm, and continued : “ Hear me out. I am not the first 
Roman, nor the noblest, who has thought thus before me. 
Remember the words of Cicero : ‘ Magnificent are these games, 
no doubt ; but what delight can it be to a refined mind to see 
either a feeble man torn by a most powerful beast, or a noble 
animal pierced through by a javelin ?’ 1 I am not ashamed 
of agreeing with the greatest of Roman orators.” 

“ Then shall we never see you in the amphitheatre, Sebas- 
tian?” asked Fulvius, with a bland but taunting tone. 

“ If you do,” the soldier replied, “ depend upon it, it will 
be on the side of the defenceless, not on that of the brutes that 
would destroy them.” 

“ Sebastian is right,” exclaimed Fabiola, clapping her hands, 
“ and I close the discussion by my applause. I have never 
heard Sebastian speak, except on the side of generous and 
high-minded sentiments.” 

Fulvius bit his lip in silence, and all rose to depart. 


CHAPTER VII 

POOR AND RICH 

During the latter part of the conversation just recorded, Fabius 
had been quite abstracted, speculating upon his conversation 
with Agnes. How quietly she had kept her secret to herself ! 
But who could this favoured person be, who had already won 
her heart ? He thought over many, but could find no answer. 
The gift of rich jewels particularly perplexed him. He knew 
no young Roman nobleman likely to possess them ; and 
sauntering, as he did, every day into the great shops, he was 
sure to have heard if any such costly order had been given. 

1 “ Magnifies nemo negat ; sed quae potest esse homini polito delectatio, 
quum aut homo imbecillus a valentissima bestia laniatur, aut praeclara bestia 
venabulo transverbeiatur ? ” — Ep. ad Earn. lib. vil ep. 1. 


30 fabiola; or, 

Suddenly the bright idea flashed through his mind, that Fulvius, 
who daily exhibited new and splendid gems, brought from 
abroad, could be the only person able to make her such 
presents. He moreover noticed such occasional looks darted 
towards his cousin by the handsome foreigner, as left him no 
doubt that he was deeply enamoured of her ; and if Agnes 
did not seem conscious of the admiration, this of course was 
part of her plan. Once convinced of this important conclusion, 
he determined to favour the wishes of the two, and astonish 
his daughter one day by the sagacity he had displayed. 

But we must leave our nobler guests for more humble scenes, 
and follow Syra from the time that she left her young mistress’s 
apartment. When she presented herself to Euphrosyne, the 
good-natured nurse was shocked at the cruel wound, and uttered 
an exclamation of pity. But immediately recognising in it the 
work of Fabiola, she was divided between two contending feel- 
ings. “ Poor thing ! ” she said, as she went on first washing, 
then closing and dressing the gash, “it is a dreadful cut. 
What did you do to deserve it ? How it must have hurt you, 
my poor girl ! But how wicked you must have been to bring 
it upon yourself ! It is a savage wound, yet inflicted by the 
gentlest of creatures (you must be faint from loss of blood; 
take this cordial to support you) : and no doubt she found 
herself obliged to strike.” 

“No doubt,” said Syra, amused, “it was all my fault; I had 
no business to argue with my mistress.” 

“ Argue with her! — argue! — O ye gods! who ever heard 
before of a slave arguing with a noble mistress, and such a 
learned one ! Why, Calpurnius himself would be afraid of 
disputing with her. No wonder, indeed, she was so — so 
agitated as not to know that she was hurting you. But this 
must be concealed ; it must not be known that you have been 
so wrong. Have you no scarf or nice veil that we could throw 
round the arm as if for ornament? All the others, I know, 
have plenty, given or bought ; but you never seem to care for 
these pretty things. Let us look.” 

She went into the maid-slaves’ dormitory, which was within 
her room, opened Syra’s capsa or box, and after turning over 
in vain its scanty contents, she drew forth from the bottom 
a square kerchief of richest stuff, magnificently embroidered, 
and even adorned with pearls. Syra blushed deeply, and 
entreated not to be obliged to wear this most disproportioned 
piece of dress, especially as it was a token of better days, long 
and painfully preserved. But Euphrosyne, anxious to hide her 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 3 1 

mistress’s fault, was inexorable, and the rich scarf was gracefully 
fastened round the wounded arm. 

This operation performed, Syra proceeded to the little 
parlour opposite the porter’s room, where the higher slaves 
could see their friends. She held in her hand a basket 
covered with a napkin. The moment she entered the door, 
a light step came bounding across the room to meet her. 
It was that of a girl of about sixteen or seventeen, dressed 
in the poorest attire, but clean and neat, who threw her arms 
round Syra’s neck with such a bright countenance and such 
hearty glee that a bystander would hardly have supposed 
that her sightless eyes had never communed with the outer 
world. 

“Sit down, dear Caecilia,” said Syra, with a most affectionate 
tone, and leading her to a seat ; “to-day I have brought you a 
famous feast : you will fare sumptuously.” 

“ How so ? I think I do every day.” 

“ No, but to-day my mistress has kindly sent me out a dainty 
dish from her table, and I have brought it here for you.” 

“ How kind of her ; yet how much kinder of you, my sister! 
But why have you not partaken of it yourself? It was meant 
for you, and not for me.” 

“ Why, to tell the truth, it is a greater treat to me to see you 
enjoy anything than to enjoy it myself.” 

“ No, dear Syra, no ; it must not be. God has wished me 
to be poor, and I must try to do His will. I could no more 
think of eating the food, than I could of wearing the dress, of 
the rich, so long as I can obtain that of the poor. I love to 
share with you your pulmentum , x which I know is given me in 
charity by one poor like myself. I procure for you the merit 
of alms-deeds ; you give me the consolation of feeling that I 
am, before God, still only a poor blind thing. I think He 
will love me better thus than if feeding on luxurious fare. I 
would rather be with Lazarus at the gate than with Dives at 
the table.” 

“ How much better and wiser you are than I, my good 
child ! It shall be as you wish. I will give the dish to my 
companions, and, in the meantime, here I set before you your 
usual humble fare.” 

“ Thanks, thanks, dear sister ; I will await your return.” 

Syra went to the maids’ apartment, and put before her jealous 
but greedy companions the silver dish. As their mistress 
occasionally showed them this little kindness, it did not much 

1 Porridge. 


32 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

surprise them. But the poor servant was weak enough to feel 
ashamed of appearing before her comrades with the rich scarf 
round her arm. She took it off before she entered ; then, not 
wishing to displease Euphrosyne, replaced it as well as she 
could with one hand on coming out. She was in the court 
below, returning to her blind friend, when she saw one of the 
noble guests of her mistress’s table alone, and, with a morti- 
fied look, crossing towards the door, and she stepped behind a 
column to avoid any possible and not uncommon rudeness. 
It was Fulvius ; and no sooner did she, unseen, catch a glimpse 
of him, than she stood for a moment as one nailed to the spot. 
Her heart beat against her bosom, then quivered as if about to 
cease its action ; her knees struck against one another, a shiver 
ran through her frame, while perspiration started on her brow. 
Her eyes, wide open, were fascinated, like the bird’s before 
the snake. She raised her hand to her breast, made upon it 
the sign of life, and the spell was broken. She fled in an 
instant, still unnoticed, and had hardly stepped noiselessly 
behind a curtain that closed the stairs, when Fulvius, with 
downcast eyes, reached the spot on which she had stood. He 
started back a step, as if scared by something lying before him. 
He trembled violently ; but recovering himself by a sudden 
effort, he looked around him, and saw that he was alone. 
There was no eye upon him — except One which he did not 
heed, but which read his evil heart in that hour. He gazed 
again upon the object, and stooped to pick it up ; but drew 
back his hand, and that more than once. At last he heard 
footsteps approaching; he recognised the martial tread of 
Sebastian, and hastily he snatched up from the ground the 
rich scarf which had dropped from Syra’s arm. He shook as 
he folded it up ; and when, to his horror, he found upon it 
spots of fresh blood, which had oozed through the bandage^ 
he reeled like a drunken man to the door, and rushed to his 
lodgings. 

Pale, sick, and staggering, he went into his chamber, re- 
pulsing roughly the officious advances of his slaves, and only 
beckoned to his faithful domestic to follow him, and then 
signed to him to bar the door. A lamp was burning brightly 
by the table, on which Fulvius threw the embroidered scarf 
in silence, and pointed to the stains of blood. That dark 
man said nothing ; but his swarthy countenance was blanched, 
while his master’s was ashy and livid. 

“ It is the same, no doubt,” at length spoke the attendant, 
in their foreign tongue ; “ but she is certainly dead.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


33 

“Art thou quite sure, Eurotas?” asked the master, with 
the keenest of his hawk’s looks. 

“ As sure as man can be of what he has not seen himself. 
Where didst thou find this ? And whence this blood ? ” 

“ I will tell thee all to-morrow ; I am too sick to-night. As 
co those stains, which were liquid when I found it, I know 
not whence they came, unless they are warnings of vengeance 
— nay, a vengeance themselves, deep as the Furies could 
meditate, fierce as they can launch. That blood has not been 
shed now? 

“ Tut, tut ! this is no time for dreams or fancies. Did any 
one see thee pick the — the thing up ? ” 

“ No one, I am sure.” 

“ Then we are safe ; better in our hands than in others’. A 
good night’s rest will give us better counsel.” 

“ True, Eurotas ; but do thou sleep this night in my 
chamber.” 

Both threw themselves on their couches ; Fulvius on a rich 
bed, Eurotas on a lowly pallet, from which, raised upon his 
elbow, with dark but earnest eye, he long watched, by the 
lamp’s light, the troubled slumbers of the youth — at once his 
devoted guardian and his evil genius. Fulvius tossed about 
and moaned in his sleep, for his dreams were gloomy and 
heavy. First he sees before him a beautiful city in a distant 
land, with a river of crystal brightness flowing through it. 
Upon it is a galley weighing anchor, with a figure on deck, 
waving towards him, in farewell, an embroidered scarf. The 
scene changes ; the ship is in the midst of the sea, battling 
with a furious storm, while on the summit of the mast the same 
scarf streams out, like a pennant, unruffled and uncrumpled 
by the breeze. The vessel is now dashed upon a rock, and 
all with a dreadful shriek are buried in the deep. But the top- 
mast stands above the billows, with its calm and brilliant flag ; 
till, amidst the sea-birds that shriek around, a form with a torch 
in her hand, and black flapping wings, flies by, snatches it from 
the staff, and with a look of stern anger displays it, as in her 
flight she pauses before him. He reads upon it, written in 
fiery letters, Nemesis . 1 

But it is time to return to our other acquaintances in the 
house of Fabius. 

After Syra had heard the door close on Fulvius, she paused 
to compose herself, offered up a secret prayer, and returned to 
her blind friend. She had finished her frugal meal, and was 

1 Vengeance 

* C 


34 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


waiting patiently the slave’s return. Syra then commenced her 
daily duties of kindness and hospitality ; she brought water, 
washed her hands and feet, in obedience to Christian practice, 
and combed and dressed her hair, as if the poor creature had 
been her own child. Indeed, though not much older, her 
look was so tender, as she hung over her poor friend, her tones 
were so soft, her whole action so motherly, that one would 
have thought it was a parent ministering to her daughter, rather 
than a slave serving a beggar. And this beggar, too, looked 
so happy, spoke so cheerily, and said such beautiful things, 
that Syra lingered over her work to listen to her and gaze 
on her. 

It was at this moment that Agnes came for her appointed 
interview, and Fabiola insisted on accompanying her to the 
door ; but when Agnes softly raised the curtain, and caught a 
sight of the scene before her, she beckoned to Fabiola to look 
in, enjoining silence by her gesture. The blind girl was oppo- 
site, and her voluntary servant on one side, unconscious of 
witnesses. The heart of. Fabiola was touched; she had never 
imagined that there was such a thing as disinterested love on 
earth between strangers ; as to charity, it was a word unknown 
to Greece or Rome. She retreated quietly, with a tear in her 
eye, and said to Agnes as she took leave — 

“ I must retire ; that girl, as you know, proved to me this 
afternoon that a slave may have a head ; she has now shown 
me that she may have a heart. I was amazed when, a few 
hours ago, you asked me if I did not love a slave. I think 
now I could almost love Syra. I half regret that I have agreed 
to part with her.” 

As she went back into the court, Agnes entered the room, 
and laughing, said — 

“ So, Caecilia, I have found out your secret at last. This is 
the friend whose food you have always said was so much better 
than mine that you would never eat at my house. Well, if 
the dinner is not better, at any rate I agree that you have 
fallen in with a better hostess.” 

“ Oh, don’t say so, sweet Lady Agnes,” answered the blind 
girl ; “ it is the dinner indeed that is better. You have 
plenty of opportunities for exercising charity; but a ppor 
slave can only do so by finding some one still poorer and 
helpless, like me. That thought makes her food by far the 
sweetest.” 

“Well, you are right,” said Agnes, “and I am not sorry to 
have you present, to hear the good news I bring to Syra. It 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


35 


will make you happy too. Fabiola has allowed me to become 
your mistress, Syra, and to take you with me. To-morrow you 
shall be free, and a dear sister to me.” 

Caecilia clapped her hands with joy, and throwing her arms 
round Syra’s neck, exclaimed, “ Oh, how good ! How happy 
you will now be, dear Syra ! ” 

But Syra was deeply troubled, and replied with faltering 
voice, “ O good and gentle lady, you have been kind indeed 
to think so much about one like me. But pardon me, if I 
entreat you to remain as I am ; I assure you, dear Caecilia, I 
am quite happy here.” 

“ But why wish to stay?” asked Agnes. 

“ Because,” rejoined Syra, “ it is most perfect to abide with 
God, in the state wherein we have been called . 1 I own this 
is not the one in which I was born ; I have been brought to it 
by others.” A burst of tears interrupted her for a moment, 
and then she went on. “ But so much the more clear is it to 
me, that God has willed me to serve Him in this condition. 
How can I wish to leave it ? ” 

“Well then,” said Agnes, still more eagerly, “we can easily 
manage it. I will not free you, and you shall be my bond- 
woman. That will be just the same.” 

“No, no,” said Syra, smiling, “that will never do. Our 
great Apostle’s instructions to us are : ‘ Servants, be subject to 
your masters with all fear, not only to the good and gentle, 
but also to the froward .’ 2 I am far from saying that my 
mistress is one of these ; but you, noble Lady Agnes, are too 
good and gentle for me. Where would be my cross if I lived 
with you ? You do not know how proud and headstrong I am 
by nature; and I should fear for myself if I had not some 
pain and humiliation.” 

Agnes was almost overcome, but she was more eager than 
ever to possess such a treasure of virtue, and said, “I see, 
Syra, that no motive addressed to your own interest can move 
you, I must therefore use a more selfish plea. I want to have 
you with me, that I may improve by your advice and example. 
Come, you will not refuse such a request.” 

“Selfish,” replied the slave, “you can never be. And 
therefore I will appeal to yourself from your request. You 
know Fabiola, and you love her. What a noble soul, and 
what a splendid intellect she possesses ! What great qualities 
and high accomplishments, if they only reflected the light of 
truth ! And how jealously does she guard in herself that 

1 I Cor. vii. 24. 2 1 Pet. ii. 14. 


36 FAB I OLA ; OR, 

pearl of virtues which only we know how to prize ! What a 
truly great Christian she would make ! ” 

“ Go on, for God’s sake, dear Syra,” broke out Agnes, all 
eagerness. “ And do you hope for it ? ” 

“ It is my prayer day and night ; it is my chief thought and 
aim ; it is the occupation of my life. I will try to win her by 
patience, by assiduity, even by such unusual discussions as we 
have held to-day. And when all is exhausted, I have one 
resource more.” 

“What is that?” both asked. 

“To give my life for her conversion. I know that a poor 
slave like me has few chances of martyrdom. Still, a fiercer 
persecution is said to be approaching, and perhaps it will not 
disdain such humble victims. But be that as God pleases, my 
life for her soul is placed in His hands. And oh, dearest, 
best of ladies,” she exclaimed, falling on her knees and be- 
dewing Agnes’s hand with tears, “do not come in thus 
between me and my prize.” 

“You have conquered, sister Syra (oh ! never again call me 
lady),” said Agnes. “Remain at your post; such single- 
hearted, generous virtue must triumph. It is too sublime for 
so homely a sphere as my household.” 

“And I, for my part,” subjoined Caecilia, with a look of 
arch gravity, “ say that she has said one very wicked thing, and 
told a great story this evening.” 

“ What is that, my pet ? ” asked Syra, laughing. 

“Why, you said that I was wiser and better than you, 
because I declined eating some trumpery delicacy, which 
would have gratified my palate for a few minutes at the ex- 
pense of an act of greediness, while you have given up liberty, 
happiness, the free exercise of your religion, and have offered 
to give up life itself, for the salvation of one who is your 
tyrant and tormentor. Oh, fie ! how could you tell me such 
a thing ! ” 

The servant now announced that Agnes’s litter was waiting 
at the door ; and any one who could have seen the affectionate 
farewell of the three — the noble lady, the slave, and the 
beggar — would have justly exclaimed, as people had often 
done before, “ See how these Christians love one another ! ” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


3 7 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE FIRST DAY’S CONCLUSION 

If we linger a little time about the door, and see Agnes fairly 
off, and listen to the merry conversation between her and 
Csecilia, in which Agnes asks her to allow herself to be accom- 
panied home by one of her attendants, as it has grown dark, 
and the girl is amused at the lady’s forgetfulness that day and 
night are the same to her, and that on this very account she 
is the appointed guide to thread the mazes of the catacombs, 
familiar to her as the streets of Rome, which she walks in 
safety at all hours ; if thus we pass a little time before re- 
entering, to inquire how the mistress within fares after the 
day’s adventures, we shall find the house turned topsy-turvy. 
Slaves, with lamps and torches, are running about in every 
direction, looking for something or other that is lost, in every 
possible and impossible place. Euphrosyne insists it must be 
found; till at last the search is given up in despair. The 
reader will probably have anticipated the solution of the 
mystery. Syra had presented herself to have her wound re- 
dressed, according to orders, and the scarf which had bound 
it was no longer there. She could give no account of it, 
further than that she had taken it off, and put it on, certainly 
not so well as Euphrosyne had done it, and she gave the 
reason, for she scorned to tell a lie. Indeed, she had never 
missed it till now. The kind-hearted old nurse was much 
grieved at the loss, which she considered must be heavy to a 
poor slave-girl, as she probably reserved that object for the 
purchase of her liberty. And Syra, too, was sorry, but for 
reasons which she could not have made the good housekeeper 
comprehend. 

Euphrosyne had all the servants interrogated, and many 
even searched, to Syra’s great pain and confusion ; and then 
ordered a grand general battue through every part of the house 
where Syra had been. Who for a moment could have dreamt 
of suspecting a noble guest at the master’s table of purloining 
any article, valuable or not ? The old lady therefore came to 
the conclusion that the scarf had been spirited away by some 
magical process ; and greatly suspected that the black slave 
A fra, who she knew could not bear Syra, had been using some 
spell to annoy the poor girl. For she believed the Moor to 


fabiola; or, 


38 

be a very Canidia , 1 being often obliged to let her go out alone 
at night, under pretence of gathering herbs at full moon for 
her cosmetics, as if plucked at any other time they would not 
possess the same virtues ; to procure deadly poisons Euphrosyne 
suspected, but in reality to join in the hideous orgies of 
Fetichism 2 with others of her race, or to hold interviews with 
such as consulted her imaginary art. It was not till all was 
given up, and Syra found herself alone, that on more coolly 
recollecting the incidents of the day, she remembered the pause 
in Fulvius’s walk across the court, at the very spot where she 
had stood, and his hurried steps, after this, to the door. The 
conviction then flashed on her mind, that she must have there 
dropped her kerchief, and that he must have picked it up. 
That he should have passed it with indifference she believed 
impossible. She was confident, therefore, that it was now in 
his possession. After attempting to speculate on the possible 
consequences of this misadventure, and coming to no satisfac- 
tory conclusion, she determined to commit the matter entirely 
to God, and sought that repose which a good conscience was 
sure to render balmy and sweet. 

Fabiola, on parting with Agnes, retired to her apartment; 
and after the usual services had been rendered to her by her 
other two servants and Euphrosyne, she dismissed them with 
a gentler manner than ever she had shown before. As soon 
as they had retired, she went to recline upon the couch where 
first we found her ; when, to her disgust, she discovered lying 
on it the style with which she had wounded Syra. She 
opened a chest, and threw it in with horror ; nor did she ever 
again use any such weapon. 

She took up the volume which she had last laid down, 
and which had greatly amused her ; but it was quite insipid, 
and seemed most frivolous to her. She laid it down again, 
and gave free course to her thoughts on all that had hap- 
pened. It struck her first what a wonderful child her cousin 
Agnes was, — how unselfish, how pure, how simple, how sen- 
sible, too, and even wise ! She determined to be her pro- 
tector, her elder sister in all things. She had observed, too, 
as well as her father, the frequent looks which Fulvius had 
fixed upon her ; not, indeed, those libertine looks which she 
herself had often borne with scorn, but designing, cunning 
glances, such as she thought betrayed some scheme or art, 
of which Agnes might become the victim. She resolved to 

1 A famous sorceress in Augustus’s age. 

3 The worship of interior Africa. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


39 

frustrate it, whatever it might be, and arrived at exactly the 
opposite conclusion to her father’s about him. She made up 
her mind to prevent Fulvius having any access to Agnes, 
at least at her house; and even blamed herself for having 
brought one so young into the strange company which often 
met at her father’s table, especially as she now found that 
her motives for doing so had been decidedly selfish. It was 
nearly at the same moment that Fulvius, tossing on his couch, 
had come to the determination never again, if possible, to go 
inside Fabius’s door, and to resist or elude every invitation 
from him. 

Fabiola had measured his character ; had caught, with her 
penetrating eye, the affectation of his manner, and the cunning 
of his looks, and could not help contrasting him with the frank 
and generous Sebastian. “ What a noble fellow that Sebastian 
is ! ” she said to herself. “ How different from all the other 
youths that come here. Never a foolish word escapes his lips, 
never an unkind look darts from his bright and cheerful eye. 
How abstemious, as becomes a soldier, at the table; how 
modest, as befits a hero, about his own strength and bold 
actions in war, which others speak so much about. Oh ! if he 
only felt towards me as others pretend to do — ” She did not 
finish the sentence, but a deep melancholy seemed to steal 
over her whole, soul. 

Then Syra’s conversation, and all that had resulted from it, 
passed again through her mind ; it was painful to her, yet she 
could not help dwelling on it ; and she felt as if that day were 
a crisis in her life. Her pride had been humbled by a slave, 
and her mind softened, she knew not how. Had her eyes 
been opened in that hour, and had she been able to look up 
above this world, she would have seen a soft cloud like incense, 
but tinged with a rich carnation, rising from the bed-side of a 
kneeling slave (prayer and willing sacrifice of life breathed up- 
wards together), which, when it struck the crystal footstool of 
a mercy-seat in heaven, fell down again as a dew of gentlest 
grace upon her arid heart. 

She could not indeed see this ; yet it was no less true ; and 
wearied, at length she sought repose. But she, too, had a 
distressing dream. She saw a bright spot as in a delicious 
garden, richly illuminated by a light like noonday* but inex- 
pressibly soft, while all around was dark. Beautiful flowers 
formed the sward, plants covered with richest bloom grew 
festooned from tree to tree, on each of which glowed golden 
fruit. In the midst of this space she saw the poor blind girl, 


40 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


with her look of happiness on her cheerful countenance, seated 
on the ground ; while on one side, Agnes, with her sweetest 
simple looks, and on the other, Syra, with her quiet patient 
smile, hung over her and caressed her. Fabiola felt an irre- 
sistible desire to be with them ; it seemed to her that they 
were enjoying some felicity which she had never known or 
witnessed, and she thought they even beckoned her to join 
them. She ran forward to do so, when to her horror she 
found a wide and black and deep ravine, at the bottom of 
which roared a torrent between herself and them. By degrees 
its waters rose, till they reached the upper margin of the dyke, 
and there flowed, though so deep, yet sparkling and brilliant, 
and most refreshing. Oh, for courage to plunge into this 
stream, through which alone the gorge could be crossed, and 
land in safety on the other side ! And still they beckoned, 
urging her on to try it. But as she was standing on the brink, 
clasping her hands in despair, Calpurnius seemed to emerge 
from the dark air around, with a thick heavy curtain stretched 
out, on which were worked all sorts of monstrous and hideous 
chimeras, most curiously running into and interwoven with 
each other ; and this dark veil grew and grew till it shut out 
the beautiful vision from her sight. She felt disconsolate, till 
she seemed to see a bright genius (as she called him), in whose 
features she fancied she traced a spiritualised resemblance to 
Sebastian, and whom she had noticed standing sorrowful at a 
distance, now approach her, and, smiling on her, fan her fevered 
face with his gold and purple wing, when she lost her vision in 
a calm and refreshing sleep. 


CHAPTER IX 

MEETINGS 

Of all the Roman hills, the most distinctly traceable on every 
side is undoubtedly the Palatine. Augustus having chosen it 
for his residence, successive emperors followed his example, 
but gradually transformed his modest residence into a palace , , 
which covered the entire hill. Nero, not satisfied with its 
dimensions, destroyed the neighbourhood by fire, and then 
extended the imperial residence to the neighbouring Esquiline, 
taking in the whole space now occupied between the two hills 
by the Coliseum. Vespasian threw down that “golden house,” 



“ FabioIa grasped the style in her right hand, and made an almost blind thrust 
at the unflinching handmaid.” — Page 19. 



THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


41 


of which the magnificent vaults remain, covered with beautiful 
paintings, and built the amphitheatre just mentioned, and 
other edifices, with its materials. The entrance to the palace 
was made, soon after this period, from the Via Sacra, or 
Sacred Way, close to the arch of Titus. After passing through 
a vestibule, the visitor found himself in a magnificent court, 
the plan of which can be distinctly traced. Turning from this, 
on the left side, he entered into an immense square space, 
arranged and consecrated to Adonis by Domitian, and planted 
with trees, shrubs, and flowers. 

Still keeping to the left, you would enter into sets of 
chambers, constructed by Alexander Severus in honour of his 
mother Mammaea, whose name they bore. They looked out 
opposite to the Coelian hill, just at the angle of it, which abuts 
upon the later triumphal arch of Constantine, and the fountain 
called the Meta Sudans. 1 Here was the apartment occupied 
by Sebastian as a tribune, or superior officer, of the imperial 
guard. It consisted of a few rooms, most modestly furnished, 
as became a soldier and a Christian. His household was 
limited to a couple of freedmen and a venerable matron, who 
had been his nurse, and loved him as a child. They were 
Christians, as were all the men in his cohort, partly by con- 
version, but chiefly by care in recruiting new soldiers. 

It was a few evenings after the scenes scribed in the last 
chapter that Sebastian, a couple of hours . .ter dark, ascended 
the steps of the vestibule just described, in company with an- 
other youth, of whom we have already spoken. Pancratius 
admired and loved Sebastian with the sort of affection that an 
ardent young officer may be supposed to bear towards an older 
and gallant soldier who receives him into his friendship. But it 
was not as to a soldier of Csesar but as to a champion of Christ 
that the civilian boy looked up to the young tribune, whose 
generosity, noble-mindedness, and valour were enshrouded in 
such a gentle, simple bearing, and were accompanied by such 
prudence and considerateness as gave confidence and encour- 
agement to all that dealt with him. And Sebastian loved 
Pancratius no less, on account of his single-hearted ardour, 
and the innocence and candour of his mind ; but he well saw 
the dangers to which his youthful warmth and impetuosity 
might lead him ; and he encouraged him to keep close to him- 
self, that he might guide, and perhaps sometimes restrain, him. 

1 “The sweating goal.” It was an obelisk of brick (which yet remains), 
cased with marble, from the top of which issued water, and flowed down 
like a sheet of glass all round it into a basin on the ground. 


42 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


As they were entering the palace, that part of which Sebas- 
tian’s cohort guarded, he said to his companion, “ Every time 
that I enter here, it strikes me how kind an act of Divine 
Providence it was to plant, almost at the very gate of Caesar’s 
palace, the arch which commemorates at once the downfall of 
the first great system thaTwas antagonistic to Christianity, and 
the completion of the greatest prophecy of the Gospel — the 
destruction of Jerusalem by the Roman power . 1 I cannot but 
believe that another arch will one day arise to commemorate 
no less a victory over the second enemy of our religion, the 
heathen Roman empire itself.” 

“ What ! do you contemplate the overthrow of this vast 
empire, as the means of establishing Christianity ? ” 

“ God forbid ! I would shed the last drop of my blood, as 
I shed my first, to maintain it. And depend upon it, when 
the empire is converted, it will not be by such gradual growth 
as we now witness, but by some means, so unhuman, so divine, 
as we shall never, in our most sanguine longings, forecast ; but 
all will exclaim : ‘ This is the change of the right hand of the 
Most High!’” 

“ No doubt ; but your idea of a Christian triumphal arch sup- 
poses an earthly instrument ; where do you imagine this to lie ? ” 

“Why, Pancratius, my thoughts, I own, turn towards the 
family of one of the Augusti, as showing a slight germ of better 
thoughts : I mean Constantius Chlorus.” 

“ But, Sebastian, how many of even our learned and good men 
will say, nay, do say, if you speak thus to them, that similar 
hopes were entertained in the reigns of Alexander, Gordian, 
or Aurelian; yet ended in disappointment. Why, they ask, 
should we not expect the same results now ? ” 

“ I know it too well, my dear Pancratius ; and bitterly have 
I often deplored those dark views which damp our energies ; 
that lurking thought that vengeance is perpetual, and mercy 
temporary; that martyr’s blood and virgin’s prayer have no 
power even to shorten times of visitation, and hasten hours of 
grace.” 

By this time they had reached Sebastian’s apartment, the 
principal room of which was lighted, and evidently prepared 
for some assembly. But opposite the door was a window 
open to the ground, and leading to a terrace that ran along 
that side of the building. The night looked so bright through 
it, that they both instinctively walked across the room, and 

1 The triumphal arch of Titus, on which are represented the spoils of 
the Temple, 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


43 

stood upon the terrace. A lovely and splendid view presented 
itself to them. The moon was high in the heavens, swimming 
in them, as an Italian moon does ; a round full globe, not a 
flat surface, bathed all round in its own refulgent atmosphere. 
It dimmed, indeed, the stars near itself ; but they seemed to 
have retired, in thicker and more brilliant clusters, into the 
distant corners of the azure sky. It was just such an evening 
as, years after, Monica and Augustine enjoyed from a window 
at Ostia, as they discoursed of heavenly things. 

It is true that, below and around, all was beautiful and 
grand. The Coliseum, or Flavian amphitheatre, rose at one 
side, in all its completeness ; and the gentle murmur of the 
fountain, while its waters glistened in a silvery column, like the 
refluent sea-wave gliding down a slanting rock, came soothingly 
on the ear. On the other side, the lofty building called the 
Septizonium of Severus, in front, towering above the Ccelian, 
the sumptuous baths of Caracalla, reflected from their marble 
walls and stately pillars the radiance of the autumn moon. 
But all these massive monuments of earthly glory rose un- 
heeded before the two Christian youths, as they stood silent ; 
the elder with his right arm round his youthful companion’s 
neck, and resting on his shoulder. After a long pause, he took 
up the thread of his last discourse, and said, in a softer tone, 
“ I was going to show you, when we stepped out here, the 
very spot, just below our feet, where I have often fancied the 
triumphal arch, to which I have alluded, would stand . 1 But 
who can think of such paltry things below, with the splendid 
vault above us, lighted up so brilliantly, as if on purpose to 
draw upwards our eyes and hearts ? ” 

“True, Sebastian; and I have sometimes thought, that, if 
the under side of that firmament up to which the eye of man, 
however wretched and sinful, may look, be so beautiful and 
bright, what must that upper side be, down upon which the 
eye of boundless Glory deigns to glance ! I imagine it to be 
like a richly embroidered veil, through the texture of which a 
few points of golden thread may be allowed to pass ; and these 
only reach us. How transcendently royal must be that upper 
surface, on which tread the lightsome feet of angels, and of the 
just made perfect ! ” 

“A graceful thought, Pancratius, and no less true. It 
makes the veil, between us labouring here and the triumphal 
church above, thin and easily to be passed.” 

1 The arch of Constantine stands exactly under the spot where this scene 
is described, 


44 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


“ And pardon me, Sebastian,” said the youth, with the same 
look up to his friend, as a few evenings before had met his 
mother’s inspired gaze, “pardon me if, while you wisely specu- 
late upon a future arch to record the triumph of Christianity, 
I see already before me, built and open, the arch through 
which we, feeble as we are, may lead the Church speedily to 
the triumph of glory, and ourselves to that of bliss.” 

“ Where, my dear boy, where do you mean ? ” 

Pancratius pointed steadily with his hand towards the left, 
and said, “ There, my noble Sebastian ; any of those open 
arches of the Flavian amphitheatre, which lead to its arena ; 
over which, not denser than the outstretched canvas which 
shades our spectators, is that veil of which you spoke just 
now. But hark ! ” 

“That was a lion’s roar from beneath the Coelian ! ” ex- 
claimed Sebastian, surprised. “ Wild beasts must have arrived 
at the vivarium 1 of the amphitheatre, for I know there were 
none there yesterday.” 

“Yes, hark!” continued Pancratius, not noticing the inter- 
ruption. “These are the trumpet-notes that summon us; that 
is the music that must accompany us to our triumph.” 

Both paused for a time, when Pancratius again broke the 
silence, saying, “ This puts me in mind of a matter on which 
I want to take your advice, my faithful counsellor ; will your 
company be soon arriving ? ” 

“Not immediately, and they will drop in one by one; till 
they assemble, come into my chamber, where none will inter- 
rupt us.” 

They walked along the terrace, and entered the last room 
of the suite. It was at the corner of the hill, exactly opposite 
the fountain, and was lighted only by the rays of the moon 
streaming through the open window on that side. The soldier 
stood near this, and Pancratius sat upon his small military 
couch. 

“What is this great affair, Pancratius,” said the officer, 
smiling, “ upon which you wish to have my sage opinion ? ” 

“Quite a trifle, I dare say,” replied the youth bashfully, 
“ for a bold and generous man like you ; but an important one 
to an unskilful and weak boy like me.” 

“ A good and virtuous one, I doubt not ; do let me hear it, 
and I promise you every assistance.” 

“Well, then, Sebastian — now don’t think me foolish,” pro- 
ceeded Pancratius, hesitating and blushing at every word. 

1 The place where live beasts were kept for the shows. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


45 


“ You are aware I have a quantity of useless plate at home — 
mere lumber, you know, in our plain way of living ; and my 
dear mother, for anything I can say, won’t wear the lots of old- 
fashioned trinkets which are lying locked up, and of no use to 
anybody. I have no one to whom all this should descend. 
I am, and shall be, the last of my race. You have often told 
me who in that case are a Christian’s natural heirs — the widow 
and the fatherless, the helpless and the indigent. Why should 
these wait my death to have what by reversion is theirs ? And 
if a persecution is coming, why run the risk of confiscation 
seizing them, or of plundering lictors stealing them when- 
ever our lives are wanted, to the utter loss of our rightful 
heirs ? ” 

“ Pancratius,” said Sebastian, “ I have listened without 
offering a remark to your noble suggestion. I wished you 
to have all the merit of uttering it yourself. Now just tell me, 
what makes you doubt or hesitate about what I know you wish 
to do ? ” 

“ Why, to tell the truth, I feared it might be highly pre- 
sumptuous and impertinent in one of my age to offer to do 
what people would be sure to imagine was something grand or 
generous ; while I assure you, dear Sebastian, it is no such 
thing. For I shall not miss these things a bit ; they are of no 
value to me whatever. But they will be to the poor, especially 
in the hard times coming.” 

“ Of course Lucina consents ? ” 

“ Oh, no fear about that ! I would not touch a grain of 
gold-dust without her even wishing it. But why I require 
your assistance is principally this. I should never be able to 
stand its being known that I presumed to do anything con- 
sidered out of the way, especially in a boy. You understand 
me ? So I want you, and beg of you, to get the distribution 
made at some other house ; and as from a — say from one who 
needs much the prayers of the faithful, especially the poor, and 
desires to remain unknown.” 

“ I will serve you with delight, my good and truly noble 
boy ! Hush ! did you not hear the Lady Fabiola’s name just 
mentioned? There again, and with an epithet expressive of 
no good will.” 

Pancratius approached the window ; two voices were con- 
versing together so close under them that the cornice between 
prevented their seeing the speakers, evidently a woman and a 
man. After a few minutes they walked out into the moon- 
light, almost as bright as day. 


46 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


“ I know that Moorish woman,” said Sebastian ; “ it is 
Fabiola’s black slave, Afra.” 

“And the man,” added Pancratius, “is my late school- 
fellow, Corvinus.” 

They considered it their duty to catch, if possible, the 
thread of what seemed a plot ; but as the speakers walked 
up and down, they could only make out a sentence here and 
there. We will not, however, confine ourselves to these parts, 
but give the entire dialogue. Only, a word first about the 
interlocutors. 

Of the slave we know enough for the present. Corvinus 
was son, as we have said, to Tertullus, originally Prefect of 
the Praetorium. This office, unknown in the republic, and of 
imperial creation, had, from the reign of Tiberius, gradually 
absorbed almost all civil as well as military power ; and he who 
held it often discharged the duties of chief criminal judge in 
Rome. It required no little strength of nerve to occupy this 
post to the satisfaction of despotic and unsparing masters. To 
sit all day in a tribunal, surrounded with hideous implements 
of torture, unmoved by the moans or the shrieks of old men, 
youths, or women, on whom they were tried ; to direct a cool 
interrogatory to one stretched upon the rack, and quivering in 
agony on one side, while the last sentence of beating to death 
with bullet-laden scourges was being executed on the other ; 
to sleep calmly after such scenes, and rise with appetite for 
their repetition, was not an occupation to which every member 
of the bar could be supposed to aspire. Tertullus had been 
brought from Sicily to fill the office, not because he was a 
cruel, but because he was a cold-hearted man, not susceptible 
of pity or partiality. His tribunal, however, was Corvinus’s 
early school. He could sit, while quite a boy, for hours at his 
father’s feet, thoroughly enjoying the cruel spectacles before 
him, and angry when any one got off. He grew up sottish, 
coarse, and brutal; and not yet arrived at man’s estate, his 
bloated and freckled countenance and blear eyes, one of which 
was half-closed, announced him to be already a dissolute and 
dissipated character. Without taste for anything refined, or 
ability for any learning, he united in himself a certain amount 
of animal courage and strength, and a considerable measure of 
low cunning. He had never experienced in himself a generous 
feeling, and he had never curbed an evil passion. No one had 
ever offended him whom he did not hate and pursue with ven- 
geance. Two, above all, he had sworn never to forgive — the 
schoolmaster who had often chastised him for his sulky idle- 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 47 

ness, and the school-fellow who had blessed him for his brutal 
contumely. Justice and mercy, good and evil done to him, 
were equally odious to him. 

Tertullus had no fortune to give him, and he seemed to 
have little genius to make one. To become possessed of one, 
however, was all-important to his mind; for wealth, as the 
means of gratifying his desires, was synonymous with him to 
supreme felicity. A rich heiress, or rather her dower, seemed 
the simplest object at which to aim. Too awkward, shy, and 
stupid to make himself a way in society, he sought other 
means, more kindred to his mind, for the attainment of his 
ambitious or avaricious desires. What these means were, his 
conversation with the black slave will best explain. 

“ I have come to meet you at the Meta Sudans again for 
the fourth time at this inconvenient hour. What news have 
you for me ? ” 

“ None, except that after to-morrow my mistress starts for 
her villa at Cajeta , 1 and of course I go with her. I shall want 
more money to carry on my operations in your favour.” 

“More still? You have had all I have received from my 
father for months.” 

“ Why, do you know what Fabiola is ? ” 

“ Yes, to be sure, the richest match in Rome.” 

“ The haughty and cold-hearted Fabiola is not so easily to 
T>e won.” 

“But yet you promised me that your charms and potions 
would secure, me her acceptance, or at any rate her fortune. 
What expense can these things cause ? ” 

“ Very great indeed. The most precious ingredients are re- 
quisite, and must be paid for. And do you think I will go out 
at such an hour as this amidst the tombs of the Appian Way, 
to gather my simples, without being properly rewarded ? But 
how do you mean to second my efforts ? I have told you this 
would hasten their success.” 

“ And how can I ? You know I am not cut out by nature, 
or fitted by accomplishments, to make much impression on 
any one’s affections. I would rather trust to the power of 
your black art.” 

“ Then let me give you one piece of advice ; if you have no 
grace or gift by which you can gain Fabiola’s heart ” 

“ Fortune, you mean.” 

“ They cannot be separated depend upon it, there is one 
thing which you may bring with you that is irresistible.” 

1 Gaeta. 


48 


fabiola; or, 


“ What is that ? ” 

“Gold." 

“ And where am I to get it ? it is that I seek." 

The black slave smiled maliciously, and said — 

“Why cannot you get it as Fulvius does?" 

“ How does he get it ? " 

“By blood!” 

“ How do you know it ? " 

“ I have made acquaintance with an old attendant that he 
has, who, if not as dark as I am in skin, fully makes up for it 
in his heart. His language and mine are sufficiently allied for 
us to be able to converse. He has asked me many questions 
about poisons, and pretended he would purchase my liberty, 
and take me back home as his wife; but I have something 
better than that in prospect, I trust. However, I got all that I 
wanted out from him." 

“ And what was that ? ” 

“Why, that Fulvius had discovered a great conspiracy 
against Dioclesian ; and from the wink of the old man’s awful 
eye, I understood he had hatched it first; and he has been 
sent with strong recommendations to Rome to be employed in 
the same line." 

“But I have no ability either to. make or to discover con- 
spiracies, though I may have to punish them." 

“One way, however, is easy." 

“ What is that ? " 

“In my country there are large birds, which you may 
attempt in vain to run down with the fleetest horses; but 
which, if you look about for them quietly, are the first to 
betray themselves, for they only hide their heads." 

“What do you wish to represent by this?" 

“The Christians. Is there not going to be a persecution of 
them soon ? " 

“Yes, and a most fierce one; such as has never been 
before." 

“ Then follow my advice. Do not tire yourself with hunting 
them down, and catching, after all, but mean prey ; keep your 
eyes open, and look about, for one or two good fat ones, half 
trying to conceal themselves ; pounce upon them, get a good 
share of their confiscation, and come with one good handful to 
get two in return." 

“ Thank you, thank you ; I understand you. You are not 
fond of these Christians, then ? " 

“ Fond of them ? I hate the entire race. The spirits which 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


49 


I worship are the deadly enemies of their very name.” And 
she grinned horrible a ghastly smile as she proceeded : “ I sus- 
pect one of my fellow-servants is one. Oh, how I detest her ! ” 

“ What makes you think it ? ” 

“ In the first place, she would not tell a lie for anything, and 
gets us all into dreadful scrapes by her absurd truthfulness.” 

“ Good ! what next ? ” 

“ Then she cares not for money or gifts ; and so prevents 
our having them offered.” 

“ Better ! ” 

“ And moreover she is — ” the last word died in the ear of 
Corvinus, who replied — 

“ Well, indeed, I have to-day been out of the gate to meet a 
caravan of your country-folk coming in ; but you beat them all ! ” 

“ Indeed ! ” exclaimed Afra, with delight ; “ who were they ? ” 

“ Simply Africans,” 1 replied Corvinus, with a laugh ; “ lions, 
panthers, leopards.” 

“ Wretch ! do you insult me thus ? ” 

“Come, come, be pacified. They are brought expressly 
to rid you of your hateful Christians. Let us part friends. 
Here is your money. But let it be the last ; and let me know 
when the philtres begin to work. I will not forget your hint 
about Christian money. It is quite to my taste.” 

As he departed by the Sacred Way, she pretended to go 
along the Carinse, the street between the Palatine and the 
Coelian mounts : then turned back, and looking after him, 
exclaimed : “ Fool ! to think that I am going to try experi- 
ments for you on a person of Fabiola’s character ! ” 

She followed him at a distance ; but as Sebastian, to his 
amazement, thought, turned into the vestibule of the palace. 
He determined at once to put Fabiola on her guard against 
this new plot ; but this could not be done till her return from 
the country. 


CHAPTER X 

OTHER MEETINGS 

When the two youths returned to the room by which they 
had entered the apartment, they found the expected company 
assembled. A frugal repast was laid upon the table, principally 

1 The generic name for the wild beasts of that continent, as opposed to 
bears and others from the north. 


D 


50 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


as a blind to any intruder who might happen unexpectedly 
to enter. The assembly was large and varied, containing 
clergy and laity, men and women. The purpose of the meet- 
ing was to concert proper measures, in consequence of some- 
thing which had lately occurred in the palace. This we must 
briefly explain. 

Sebastian, enjoying the unbounded confidence of the emperor, 
employed all his influence in propagating the Christian faith 
within the palace. Numerous conversions had gradually been 
made ; but shortly before this period there had been a whole- 
sale one effected, the particulars of which are recorded in the 
genuine Acts of this glorious soldier. In virtue of former laws, 
many Christians were seized and brought to trial, which often 
ended in death. Two brothers, Marcus and Marcellianus, 
had been so accused, and were expecting execution; when 
their friends, admitted to see them, implored them with tears 
to save their lives by apostasy. They seemed to waver ; they 
promised to deliberate. Sebastian heard of this, and rushed to 
save them. He was too well known to be refused admittance, 
and he entered into their gloomy prison like an angel of light. 
It consisted of a strong room in the house of the magistrate 
to whose care they had been intrusted. The place of confine- 
ment was generally left to that officer ; and here Tranquillinus, 
the father of the two youths, had obtained a respite for them 
of thirty days to try to shake their constancy ; and, to second 
his efforts, Nicostratus, the magistrate, had placed them in 
custody in his own house. Sebastian’s was a bold and perilous 
office. Besides the two Christian captives, there were gathered 
in the place sixteen heathen prisoners ; there were the parents 
of the unfortunate youths weeping over them, and caressing 
them, to allure them from their threatened doom ; there was 
the gaoler, Claudius, and there was the magistrate, Nicostratus, 
with his wife Zoe, drawn thither by the compassionate wish of 
seeing the youths snatched from their fate. Could Sebastian 
hope, that of this crowd not one would be found, whom a 
sense of official duty, or a hope of pardon, or hatred of Chris- 
tianity, might impel to betray him, if he avowed himself a 
Christian ? And did he not know that such a betrayal involved 
his death ? 

He knew it well ; but what cared he ? If three victims 
would thus be offered to God instead of two, so much the 
better; all that he dreaded was, that there should be none. 
The room was a banqueting-hall but seldom opened in the 
day, and consequently requiring very little light ; what it had, 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 5 I 

entered only, as in the Pantheon, by an opening in the roof ; 
and Sebastian, anxious to be seen by all, stood in the ray 
which now darted through it, strong and brilliant where it 
beat, but leaving the rest of the apartment almost dark. It 
broke against the gold and jew'els of his rich tribune’s armour, 
and, as he moved, scattered itself in sparks of brilliant hues 
into the darkest recesses of that gloom ; while it beamed with 
serene steadiness upon his uncovered head, and displayed 
his noble features, softened by an emotion of tender grief, 
as he looked upon the two vacillating confessors. It was 
some moments before he could give vent in words to the 
violence of his grief, till at length it broke forth in impassioned 
tones. 

“Holy and venerable brothers,” he exclaimed, “who have 
borne witness to Christ ; who are imprisoned for Him ; whose 
limbs are marked by chains worn for His sake; who have 
tasted torments with Him, — I ought to fall at your feet and 
do you homage, and ask your prayers; instead of standing 
before you as your exhorter, still less as your reprover. Can 
this be true which I have heard, that while angels were putting 
the last flower to your crowns, you have bid them pause, and 
even thought of telling them to unweave them, and scatter 
their blossoms to the winds? Can I believe that you who 
have already your feet on the threshold of paradise, are think- 
ing of drawing them back, to tread once more the valley of 
exile and of tears ? ” 

The two youths hung down their heads and wept in humble 
confession of their weakness. Sebastian proceeded — 

“ You cannot meet, the eye of a poor soldier like me, the 
least of Christ’s servants : how then will you stand the angry 
glance of the Lord whom you are about to deny before men 
(but cannot in your hearts deny), on that terrible day, when 
He, in return, will deny you before His angels? When, 
instead of standing manfully before Him, like good and faith- 
ful servants, as to-morrow ye might have done, you shall have 
to come into His presence after having crawled through a few 
more years of infamy, disowned by the Church, despised by 
its enemies, and, what is worse, gnawed by an undying worm, 
and victims of a sleepless remorse ? ” 

“ Cease ; oh, in pity cease, young man, whoever thou art,” 
exclaimed Tranquillinus, the father of the youths. “Speak 
not thus severely to my sons : it was, I assure thee, to their 
mother’s tears and to my entreaties that they had begun to 
yield, and not to the tortures which they have endured with 


52 


fabiola; or, 


such fortitu.de. Why should they leave their wretched parents 
to misery and sorrow ? Does thy religion command this, and 
dost thou call it holy ? ” 

“ Wait in patience, my good old man,” said Sebastian, with 
the kindest look and accent, “ and let me speak first with thy 
sons. They know what I mean, which thou canst not yet ; 
but with God’s grace thou too shalt soon. Your father, 
indeed, is right in saying, that for his sake and your mother’s 
you have been deliberating whether you should not prefer 
them to Him who told you, ‘ He that loveth father or mother 
more than Me, is not worthy of Me.’ You cannot hope to 
purchase for these your aged parents eternal life by your own 
loss of it. Will you make them Christians by abandoning 
Christianity? will you make them soldiers of the Cross by 
deserting its standard ? will you teach them that its doctrines 
are more precious than life, by preferring life to them? Do 
you want to gain for them, not the mortal life of the perishable 
body, but the eternal life of the soul ? then hasten yourselves to 
its acquisition ; throw down at the feet of your Saviour the 
crowns you will receive, and entreat for your parents’ salvation.” 

“ Enough, enough, Sebastian, we are resolved,” cried out 
together both the brothers. 

“Claudius,” said one, “put on me again the chains you 
have taken off.” 

“ Nicostratus,” added the other, “give orders for the sentence 
to be carried out.” 

Yet neither Claudius nor Nicostratus moved. 

“ Farewell, dear father ; adieu, dearest mother,” they in turns 
said, embracing their parents. 

“No,” replied the father, “we part no more. Nicostratus, 
go tell Chromatius that I am from this moment a Christian 
with my sons ; I will die with them for a religion which can 
make heroes thus of boys.” 

“ And I,” continued the mother, “ will not be separated from 
my husband and children.” 

The scene which followed baffies description. All were 
moved ; all wept ; the prisoners joined in the tumult of these 
new affections ; and Sebastian saw himself surrounded by a 
group of men and women smitten by grace, softened by its 
influences, and subdued by its power ; yet all was lost if one 
remained behind. He saw the danger, not to himself, but to 
the Church, if a sudden discovery were made, and to those 
souls fluttering upon the confines of life. Some hung upon 
his arms; some clasped his knees; some kissed his feet, as 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 53 

though he had been a spirit of peace, such as visited Peter in 
hie dungeon at Jerusalem. 

Two alone had expressed no thought. Nicostratus was 
indeed moved, but by no means conquered. His feelings 
were agitated, but his convictions unshaken. His wife, Zoe, 
knelt before Sebastian with a beseeching look and outstretched 
arms, but she spoke not a word. 

“ Come, Sebastian,” said the keeper of the records, for such 
was Nicostratus’s office, “ it is time for thee to depart. I can- 
not but admire the sincerity of belief and the generosity of 
heart which can make thee act as thou hast done, and which 
impel these young men to death ; but my duty is imperative, 
and must overweigh my private feelings.” 

“ And dost not thou believe with the rest ? ” 

“ No, Sebastian, I yield not so easily ; I must have stronger 
evidences than even thy virtue.” 

“ Oh, speak to him then, thou ! ” said Sebastian to Zoe ; 

“ speak, faithful wife ; speak to thy husband’s heart ; for I am 
mistaken indeed if those looks of thine tell me not that thou at 
least believest.” 

Zoe covered her face with her hands, and burst into a passion 
of tears. 

“ Thou hast touched her to the quick, Sebastian,” said her 
husband; “knowest thou not that she is dumb?” 

“ I knew it not, noble Nicostratus ; for when last I saw her • 
in Asia she could speak.” 

“For six years,” replied the other, with a faltering voice, 
“her once eloquent tongue has been paralysed, and she has 
not uttered a single word.” 

Sebastian was silent for a moment ; then suddenly he threw 
out his arms, and stretched them forth as the Christians always 
did in prayer, and raised his eyes to heaven ; then burst forth 
in these words — 

“O God! Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the beginning 
of this work is Thine; let its accomplishment be Thine 
alone. Put forth Thy power, for it is needed ; intrust it for 
once to the weakest and poorest of instruments. Let me, 
though most unworthy, so wield the sword of Thy victorious 
Cross as that the spirits of darkness may fly before it, and 
Thy salvation may embrace us all ! Zoe, look up once more 
to me.” 

All were hushed in silence, when Sebastian, after a moment’s 
silent prayer, with his right hand made over her mouth the sign 
of the cross, saying, “ Zoe, speak ; dost thou believe ? ” 


54 


fabiola; or, 


“I believe in the Lord Jesus Christ,” she replied in a clear 
and firm voice, and fell upon Sebastian’s feet. 

It was almost a shriek that Nicostratus uttered, as he threw 
himself on his knees, and bathed Sebastian’s right hand with 
tears. 

The victory was complete. Every one was gained, and im- 
mediate steps were taken to prevent discovery. The person 
responsible for the prisoners could take them where he wished; 
and Nicostratus transferred them all, with Tranquillinus and his 
wife, to the full liberty of his house. Sebastian lost no time in 
putting them under the care of the holy priest Polycarp, of the 
title of St. Pastor. It was a case so peculiar, and requiring such 
concealment, and the times were so threatening, and all new 
irritations had so much to be avoided, that the instruction 
was hurried, and continued night and day, so that baptism 
was quickly administered. 

The new Christian flock was encouraged and consoled by a 
fresh wonder. Tranquillinus, who was suffering severely from 
the gout, was restored to instant and complete health by 
baptism. Chromatius was the Prefect of the city, to whom 
Nicostratus was liable for his prisoners, and this officer could 
not long conceal from him what had happened. It was indeed 
a matter of life or death to them all, but, strengthened now by 
faith, they were prepared for either. Chromatius was a man 
of upright character, and not fond of persecution, and listened 
with interest to the account of what had occurred. But when 
he heard of Tranquillinus’s cure, he was greatly struck. He 
was himself a victim to the same disease, and suffered agonies 
of pain. “ If,” he said, “what you relate be true, and if I can 
have personal experience of this healing power, I certainly will 
not resist its evidence.” 

Sebastian was sent for. To have administered baptism 
without faith preceding, as an experiment of its healing virtue, 
would have been a superstition. Sebastian took another 
course, which will be later described, and Chromatius com- 
pletely recovered. He received baptism soon after, with his 
son Tibertius. 

It was clearly impossible for him to continue in his office, 
and he had accordingly resigned it to the emperor. Tertullus, 
the father of the hopeful Corvinus, and Prefect of the Prae- 
torium, had been named his successor; so the reader will 
perceive that the events just related from the Acts of St. 
Sebastian had occurred a little before our narrative begins, for 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 5 5 

in an early chapter we spoke of Corvinus’s father as already 
Prefect of the city. 

Let us now come down again to the evening in which 
Sebastian and Pancratius met most of the persons above 
enumerated in the officer’s chamber. Many of them resided 
in or about the palace ; and besides them were present Cas- 
tulus, who held a high situation at court , 1 and his wife Irene. 
Several previous meetings had been held, to decide upon some 
plan for securing the completer instruction of the converts, and 
for withdrawing from observation so many persons, whose 
change of life and retirement from office would excite wonder 
and inquiry. Sebastian had obtained permission from the 
emperor for Chromatius to retire to a country-house in Cam- 
pania, and it had been arranged that a considerable number 
of the neophytes should join him there, and, forming one 
household, should go on with religious instruction, and unite 
in common offices of piety. The season was come when every- 
body retired to the country, and the emperor himself was going 
to the coast of Naples, and thence would take a journey in 
southern Italy. It was therefore a favourable moment for 
carrying out the preconcerted plan. Indeed, the Pope, we are 
told, on the Sunday following this conversion, celebrated the 
divine mysteries in the house of Nicostratus, and proposed 
this withdrawal from the city. 

At this meeting all details were arranged ; different parties 
were to start in the course of the following days by various 
reads, some direct by the Appian, some along the Latin, 
others round by Tibur and a mountain road through Arpinum, 
but all were to meet at the villa, not far from Capua. Through 
the whole discussion of these somewhat tedious arrangements, 
Torquatus, one of the former prisoners, converted by Sebas- 
tian’s visit, showed himself forward, impatient, and impetuous. 
He found fault with every plan, seemed discontented with the 
directions given him, spoke almost contemptuously of this 
flight from danger, as he called it, and boasted that, for his 
part, he was ready to go into the Forum on the morrow and 
overthrow any altar, or confront any judge as a Christian. 

“Everything was said and done to soothe and even to cool him, 
and it was felt to be most important that he should be taken 
with the rest into the country. He insisted, however, upon 
going his own way. 

Only one more point remained to be decided : it was, who 
should head the little colony and direct its operations ? Here 
1 It is not mentioned what it precisely was, 


fabiola; or, 


56 

was renewed a contest of love between the holy priest Polycarp 
and Sebastian, each wishing to remain in Rome, and have the 
first chance of martyrdom. But now the difference was cut 
short by a letter brought in from the Pope, addressed to his 
“ Beloved son Polycarp, priest of the title of St. Pastor,” in 
which he commanded him to accompany the converts, and 
leave Sebastian to the arduous duty of encouraging confessors 
and protecting Christians in Rome. To hear was to obey, and 
the meeting broke up with a prayer of thanksgiving. 

Sebastian, after bidding affectionate farewell to his friends, 
insisted upon accompanying Pancratius home. As they were 
leaving the room, the latter remarked, “ Sebastian, I do not 
like that Torquatus. I fear he will give us trouble.” 

“To tell the truth,” answered the soldier, “ I would rather he 
were different ; but we must remember that he is a neophyte, 
and will improve in time, and by grace.” 

As they passed into the entrance-court of the palace, they 
heard a babel of uncouth sounds, with coarse laughter and 
occasional yells, proceeding from the adjoining yard, in which 
were the quarters of the Mauritanian archers. A fire seemed 
to be blazing in the midst of it, for the smoke and sparks rose 
above the surrounding porticoes. 

Sebastian accosted the sentinel in the court where they 
were, and asked, “ Friend, what is going on there among our 
neighbours ? ” 

“ The black slave,” he replied, “ who is their priestess, and 
who is betrothed to their captain, if she can purchase her free- 
dom, has come in for some midnight rites, and this horrid 
turmoil takes place every time she comes.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Pancratius, “ and can you tell me what is 
the religion these Africans follow ! ” 

“ I do not know, sir,”' replied the legionary, “ unless they be 
what are called Christians.” 

“ What makes you think so ? ” 

“ Why, I have heard that the Christians meet by night, and 
sing detestable songs, and commit all sorts of crimes, and cook 
and eat the flesh of a child murdered for the purpose 1 — just 
what might seem to be going on here.” 

“ Good night, comrade,” said Sebastian ; and then exclaimed, 
as they were issuing from the vestibule, “ Is it not strange, 
Pancratius, that, in spite of all our efforts, we who are con- 
scious that we worship only the One living God in spirit and 
truth, who know what care we take to keep ourselves undefiled 
1 These were the popular ideas of Christian worship. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


57 

by sin, and who would die rather than speak an unclean word, 
should yet, after three hundred years, be confounded by the 
people with the followers of the most degraded superstitions, 
and have our worship ranked with the very idolatry which above 
all things we abhor ? ‘ How long, O Lord ! how long ? ’ ” 

“So long,” said Pancratius, pausing on the steps outside 
the vestibule, and looking at the now-declining moon, “so 
long as we shall continue to walk in this pale light, and until 
the Sun of Justice shall rise upon our country in His beauty, 
and enrich it with His splendour. Sebastian, tell me, whence 
do you best like to see the sun rise ? ” 

“ The most lovely sunrise I have ever seen,” replied the 
soldier, as if humouring his companion’s fanciful question, 
“ was from the top of the Latial mountain , 1 by the temple of 
Jupiter. The sun rose behind the mountain, and projected its 
huge shadow like a pyramid over the plain, and far upon the 
sea ; then, as it rose higher, this lessened and withdrew, and 
every moment some new object caught the light, first the 
galleys and skiffs upon the water, then the shore with its 
dancing waves ; and by degrees one white edifice after the 
other sparkled in the fresh beams, till at last majestic Rome 
itself, with its towering pinnacles, basked in the effulgence of 
day. It was a glorious sight, indeed ; such as could not have 
been witnessed or imagined by those below.” 

“Just what I should have expected, Sebastian,” observed 
Pancratius ; “ and so will it be, when that more brilliant sun 
rises fully upon this benighted country. How beautiful will 
it then be to behold the shades retiring, and each moment 
one and another of the charms, as yet concealed, of our holy 
faith and worship starting into light, till the imperial city itself 
shines forth a holy type of the city of God. Will they who 
live in those times see these beauties, and worthily value 
them ? Or, will they look only at the narrow space around 
them, and hold their hands before their eyes, to shade them 
from the sudden glare ? I know not, dear Sebastian, but I 
hope that you and I will look down upon that grand spectacle, 
from where alone it can be duly appreciated, from a moun- 
tain higher than Jupiter’s, be he Alban or be he Olympian — 
dwelling on that holy mount, whereon stands the Lamb, from 
whose feet flow the streams of life . 2 

1 Now Monte Cavo, above Albano. 

2 “ Vidi supra montem Agnum stantem, de sub cujus pede fons vivus 
emanat.” — Office of St, Clement . 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


53 

They continued their walk in silence through the brilliantly 
lighted streets ; 1 and when they had reached Lucina’s house, 
and had affectionately bid one another good-night, Pancratius 
seemed to hesitate a moment, and then said — 

“ Sebastian, you said something this evening, which I should 
much like to have explained.” 

“ What was it ? ” 

“When you were contending with Polycarp, about going 
into Campania, or remaining in Rome, you promised that if 
you stayed you would be most cautious, and not expose your- 
self to unnecessary risks ; then you added, that there was one 
purpose in your mind which would effectually restrain you ; 
but that when that was accomplished, you would find it diffi- 
cult to check your longing ardour to give your life for Christ.” 

“ And why, Pancratius, do you desire so much to know this 
foolish thought of mine ? ” 

“Because I own I am really curious to learn what can be 
the object, high enough to check in you the aspiration, after 
what I know you consider to be the very highest of a Chris- 
tian’s aim.” 

“ I am sorry, my dear boy, that it is not in my power to tell 
you now. But you shall know it some time.” 

“ Do you promise me ? ” 

“Yes, most solemnly. God bless you!” 


CHAPTER XI 

A TALK WITH THE READER 

We will take advantage of the holiday which Rome is enjoying, 
sending out its inhabitants to the neighbouring hills, or to 
the whole line of sea-coast from Genoa to Paestum, for amuse- 
ment on land and water : and, in a merely didactic way, en- 
deavour to communicate to our reader some information, 
which may throw light on what we have already written, and 
prepare him for what will follow. 

From the very compressed form in which the early history 
of the Church is generally studied, and from the unchrono- 

1 Ammianus Marcellinus tells us that, at the decline of the empire, the 
streets at night were lighted so as to rival day. “Et hsec confidenter 
agebat (Gallus) ubi pernoctantium luminum claritudo dierum solet imitari 
fulgorem.” — Lib. xiv, c. 1. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


59 


logical arrangement of the saints’ biographies, as we usually 
read them, we may easily be led to an erroneous idea of the 
state of our first Christian ancestors. This may happen in two 
different ways. 

We may come to imagine, that during the first three cen- 
turies the Church was suffering unrespited, under active per- 
secution ; that the faithful worshipped in fear and trembling, 
and almost lived, in the catacombs ; that bare existence, with 
scarcely an opportunity for outward development or inward 
organisation, none for splendour, was all that religion could 
enjoy ; that, in fine, it was a period of conflict and of tribula- 
tion, without an interval of peace or consolation. On the 
other hand, we may suppose, that those three centuries were 
divided into epochs by ten distinct persecutions, some of 
longer and some of shorter duration, but definitely separated 
from one another by breathing times of complete rest. 

Either of these views is erroneous ; and we desire to state 
more accurately the real condition of the Christian Church, 
under the various circumstances of that most pregnant portion 
of her history. 

When once persecution had broken loose upon the Church, 
it may be said never entirely to have relaxed its hold, till her 
final pacification under Constantine. An edict of persecution 
once issued by an emperor was seldom recalled ; and though 
the rigour of its enforcement might gradually relax or cease, 
through the accession of a milder ruler, still it never became 
completely a dead letter, but was a dangerous weapon in the 
hands of a cruel or bigoted governor of a city or province. 
Hence, in the intervals between the greater general persecu- 
tions, ordered by a new decree, we find many martyrs, who 
owed their crowns either to popular fury or to the hatred of 
Christianity in local rulers. Hence also we read of a bitter 
persecution being carried on in one part of the empire, while 
other portions enjoyed complete peace. 

Perhaps a few examples of the various phases of persecution 
will illustrate the real relations of the primitive Church with 
the State better than mere description ; and the more learned 
reader can pass over this digression, or must have the patience 
to hear repeated, what he is so familiar with, that it will seem 
commonplace. 

Trajan was by no means one of the cruel emperors ; on the 
contrary, he was habitually just and merciful. Yet, though he 
published no new edicts against the Christians, many noble 
martyrs — amongst them St. Ignatius, Bishop of Antioch, at 


6o 


FA BIOL A ; OR, 


Rome, and St. Simeon at Jerusalem — glorified their Lord in 
his reign. Indeed, when Pliny the younger consulted him on 
the manner in which he should deal with Christians who might 
be brought before him as governor of Bithynia, the emperor gave 
him a rule which exhibits the lowest standard of justice : that 
they were not to be sought out ; but if accused, they were to be 
punished. Adrian, who issued no decree of persecution, gave 
a similar reply to a similar question from Serenius Granianus, 
proconsul of Asia. And under him, too, and even by his own 
orders, cruel martyrdom was suffered by the intrepid Symphorosa 
and her seven sons at Tibur, or Tivoli. A beautiful inscrip- 
tion found in the catacombs mentions Marius, a young officer, 
who shed his blood for Christ under this emperor . 1 Indeed, 
St. Justin Martyr, the great apologist of Christianity, informs 
us that he owed his conversion to the constancy of the martyrs 
under this emperor. 

In like manner, before the Emperor Septimus Severus had 
published his persecuting edicts, many Christians had suffered 
torments and death. Such were the celebrated martyrs of 
Scillita in Africa, and SS. Perpetua and Felicitas, with their 
companions; the Acts of whose martyrdom, containing the 
diary of the first noble lady, twenty years of age, brought 
down by herself to the eve of her death, form one of the most 
touching, and exquisitely beautiful, documents preserved to us 
from the ancient Church. 

From these historical facts it will be evident, that while 
there was from time to time a more active, severe, and general 
persecution of the Christian name all through the empire, 
there were partial and local cessations, and sometimes even a 
general suspension, of its rigour. An occurrence of this sort 
has secured for us most interesting information connected with 
our subject. When the persecution of Severus had relaxed in 
other parts, it happened that Scapula, proconsul of Africa, 
prolonged it in his province with unrelenting cruelty. He 
had condemned, among others, Mavilus of Adrumetum to be 
devoured by beasts, when he was seized with a severe illness. 
Tertullian, the oldest Christian Latin writer, addressed a letter 
to him, in which he bids him take warning from this visitation, 
and repent of his crimes ; reminding him of many judgments 
which had befallen cruel judges of the Christians in various 
parts of the world. Yet such was the charity of those holy 
men, that he tells him they were offering up earnest prayers 
for their enemy’s recovery ! 

1 Roma. Subterr. 1 . iii. c. 22. 



He who watched with beaming- eye the alms-coffers of Jerusalem alone saw 
dropped into the chest a valuable emerald ring.” — Page 20. 





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THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


6l 

He then goes on to inform him, that he may very well 
fulfil his duties without practising cruelty, by acting as other 
magistrates had done. For instance, Cincius Severus suggested 
to the accused the answers they should make to be acquitted. 
Vespronius Candidus dismissed a Christian, on the ground 
that his condemnation would encourage tumults. Asper, see- 
ing one ready to yield upon the application of slight torments, 
would not press him further ; and expressed regret that such 
a case should have been brought before him. Pudens, on 
reading an act of accusation, declared the title informal, 
because calumnious, and tore it up. 

We thus see how much might depend upon the temper, and 
perhaps the tendencies, of governors and judges in the enforc- 
ing even of imperial edicts of persecution. And St. Ambrose 
tells us that some governors boasted that they had brought 
back from their provinces their swords unstained with blood 
( incruentos enses). 

We can also easily understand how, at any particular time, a 
savage persecution might rage in Gaul, or Africa, or Asia, while 
the main part of the Church was enjoying peace. But Rome 
was undoubtedly the place most subject to frequent outbreaks 
of the hostile spirit, so that it might be considered as a privilege 
of its pontiffs during the first three centuries to bear the witness 
of blood to the faith which they taught. To be elected Pope was 
equivalent to being promoted to martyrdom. 

At the period of our narrative, the Church was in one of those 
longer intervals of comparative peace, which gave opportunity 
for great development. From the death of Valerian, in 268, 
there had been no new formal persecution, though the interval 
is glorified by many noble martyrdoms. During such periods, 
the Christians were able to carry out their religious system with 
completeness, and even with splendour. The city was divided 
into districts or parishes, each having its title, or church, served 
by priests, deacons, and inferior ministers. The poor were sup- 
ported, the sick visited, catechumens instructed; the Sacraments 
were administered, daily worship was practised, and the peni- 
tential canons were enforced by the clergy of each title ; and 
collections were made for these purposes, and others connected 
with religious charity, and its consequence, hospitality. It is 
recorded that, in 250, during the pontificate of Cornelius, there 
were in Rome forty-six priests, a hundred and fifty-four inferior 
ministers, who were supported by the alms of the faithful, to- 
gether with fifteen hundred poor. 1 This number of the priests 
1 Euseb. E. H. 1 . vi. c. 43. 


6 2 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


pretty nearly corresponds to that of the titles, which St. Optatus 
tells us there were in Rome. 

Although the tombs of the martyrs in the catacombs con- 
tinued to be objects of devotion during these more peaceful 
intervals, and these asylums of the persecuted were kept in 
order and repair, they did not then serve for the ordinary places 
of worship. The churches to which we have already alluded 
were often public, large, and even splendid ; and heathens used 
to be present at the sermons delivered in them, and such por- 
tions of the liturgy as were open to catechumens. But gene- 
rally they were in private houses, probably made out pf the 
large halls, or triclinia , which the nobler mansions contained. 
Thus we know that many of the titles in Rome were originally 
of that character. Tertullian mentions Christian cemeteries 
under a name, and with circumstances, which show that they 
were above ground, for he compares them to “threshing-floors,” 
which were necessarily exposed to the air. 

A custom of ancient Roman life will remove an objection 
which may arise as to how considerable multitudes could 
assemble in these places without attracting attention, and con- 
sequently persecution. It was usual for what may be called a 
levee to be held every morning by the rich, attended by de- 
pendants, or clients, and messengers from their friends, either 
slaves or freedmen, some of whom were admitted into the 
inner court to the master’s presence, while others only pre- 
sented themselves, and were dismissed. Hundreds might thus 
go in and out of a great house, in addition to the crowd of 
domestic slaves, tradespeople, and others who had access to 
it, through the principal or the back entrance, and little or no 
notice would be taken of the circumstance. 

There is another important phenomenon in the social life 
of the early Christians which one would hardly know how 
to believe, were not evidence of it brought before us in the 
most authentic Acts of the martyrs, and in ecclesiastical 
history. It is, the concealment which they contrived to prac- 
tise. No doubt can be entertained that persons were moving 
in the highest society, wer z occupying conspicuous public situa- 
tions, were near the persons of the emperors, who were Chris- 
tians, and yet were not suspected to be such by their most 
intimate heathen friends. Nay, cases occurred where the 
nearest relations were kept in total ignorance on this subject. 
No lie, no dissembling, no action especially, inconsistent with 
Christian morality or Christian truth, was ever permitted to 
ensure such secrecy. But every precaution compatible with 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 63 

complete uprightness was taken to conceal Christianity from 
the public eye . 1 

However necessary this prudential course might be, to 
prevent any wanton persecution, its consequences fell often 
heavily upon those who held it. The heathen world, the 
world of power, of influence, and of state, the world which 
made laws as best suited it, and executed them, the world that 
loved earthly prosperity and hated faith, felt itself surrounded, 
filled, compenetrated by a mysterious system, which spread, 
no one could see how, and exercised an influence derived no 
one knew whence. Families were startled at finding a son or 
daughter to have embraced this new law, with which they were 
not aware that they had been in contact, and which, in their 
heated fancies and popular views, they considered stupid, 
grovelling, and anti-social. Hence the hatred of Christianity 
was political as well as religious ; the system was considered 
as un-Roman, as having an interest opposed to the extension 
and prosperity of the empire, and as obeying an unseen and 
spiritual power. The Christians were pronounced irreligiosi 
in Ccesares , “ disloyal to the emperors,” and that was enough. 
Hence their security and peace depended much upon the 
state of popular feeling ; when any demagogue or fanatic could 
succeed in rousing this, neither their denial of the charges 
brought against them, nor their peaceful demeanour, nor the 
claims of civilised life, could suffice to screen them from such 
measure of persecution as could be safely urged against them. 

After these digressive remarks, we will resume, and unite 
again, the broken thread of our narrative. 


CHAPTER XII 

THE WOLF AND THE FOX 

The hints of the African slave had not been thrown away 
upon the sordid mind of Corvinus. Her own hatred of Chris- 

1 No domestic concealment surely could be more difficult than that of a 
wife’s religion from her husband. Yet Tertullian supposes this to have 
been not uncommon. For, speaking of a married woman communicating 
herself at home, according to practice in those ages of persecution, he says, 
“ Let not your husband know what you taste secretly, before every other 
food ; and if he shall know of the bread, may he not know it to be what 
it is called.” — Ad Uxor. lib. ii. c. 5. Whereas, in another place, he writes 
of a Catholic husband and wife giving communion to one another.— Zte 
Monogamia , c. II. 


6 4 FABIOLA ; OR, 

tianity arose from the circumstance, that a former mistress of 
hers had become a Christian, and had manumitted all her 
other slaves ; but, feeling it wrong to turn so dangerous a 
character as Afra, or rather Jubula (her proper name), upon 
the world, had transferred her to another proprietor. 

Corvinus had often seen Fulvius at the baths and other 
places of public resort, had admired and envied him, for his 
appearance, his dress, his conversation. But with his untoward 
shyness, or moroseness, he could never have found courage to 
address him, had he not now discovered that, though a more 
refined, he was not a less profound, villain than himself. 
Fulvius’s wit and cleverness might supply the want of these 
qualities in his own sottish composition, while his own brute 
force, and unfeeling recklessness, might be valuable auxiliaries 
to those higher gifts. He had the young stranger in his power, 
by the discovery which he had made of his real character. He 
determined, therefore, to make an effort, and enter into alliance 
with one who otherwise might prove a dangerous rival. 

It was about ten days after the meeting last described, that 
Corvinus went to stroll in Pompey’s gardens. These covered 
the space round his theatre, in the neighbourhood of the pre- 
sent Piazza Farnese. A conflagration in the reign of Carinus 
had lately destroyed the scene, as it was called, of the edifice, 
and Dioclesian had repaired it with great magnificence. The 
gardens were distinguished from others by rows of plane-trees, 
which formed a delicious shade. Statues of wild beasts, foun- 
tains, and artificial brooks, profusely adorned them. While 
sauntering about, Corvinus caught a sight of Fulvius, and 
made up to him. 

“ What do you want with me ? ” asked the foreigner, with a 
look of surprise and scorn at the slovenly dress of Corvinus. 

“To have a talk with you, which may turn out to your 
advantage — and mine.” 

“ What can you propose to me, with the first of these' recom- 
mendations? No doubt at all as to the second.” 

“ Fulvius, I am a plain-spoken man, and have no pretensions 
to your cleverness and elegance ; but we are both of one trade, 
and both consequently of one mind.” 

Fulvius started, and deeply coloured, then said, with a con- 
temptuous air, “What do you mean, sirrah?” 

“ If you double your fist,” rejoined Corvinus, “ to show me 
the fine rings on your delicate fingers, it is very well ; but if 
you mean to threaten by it, you may as well put your hand 
again into the folds of your toga. It is more graceful.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 65 

“Cut this matter short, sir. Again I ask, what do you 
mean ? ” 

“This, Fulvius,” and he whispered into his ear, “that you 
are a spy and an informer.” 

Fulvius was staggered; then rallying, said, “What right have 
you to make such an odious charge against me ? ” 

“You discovered ” (with a strong emphasis) “a conspiracy in 
ihe East, and Dioclesian ” 

Fulvius stopped him and asked, “What is your name, and 
who are you ? ” 

“ I am Corvinus, the son of Tertullus, Prefect of the city.” 

This seemed to account for all ; and Fulvius said, in subdued 
tones, “No more here; I see friends coming. Meet me dis- 
guised at daybreak to-morrow in the Patrician Street , 1 under 
the portico of the Baths of Novatus. We will talk more at 
leisure.” 

Corvinus returned home, not ill-satisfied with his first attempt 
at diplomacy. He procured a garment shabbier than his own 
from one of his father’s slaves, and was at the appointed spot 
by the first dawn of day. He had to wait a long time, and 
had almost lost patience, when he saw his new friend approach. 

Fulvius was well wrapped up in a large overcoat, and wore 
its hood over his face. He thus saluted Corvinus — 

“ Good morning, comrade ; I fear I have kept you waiting 
in the cold morning air, especially as you are thinly clad.” 

“ I own,” replied Corvinus, “ that I should have been tired 
had I not been immensely amused and yet puzzled by what I 
have been observing.” 

“What is that?” 

“Why, from an early hour, long, I suspect, before my 
coming, there have been arriving here from every side, and 
entering into that house by the back door in the narrow street, 
the rarest collection of miserable objects that you ever saw ; 
the blind, the lame, the maimed, the decrepit, the deformed of 
every possible shape ; while by the front door several persons 
have entered, evidently of a different class.” 

“ Whose dwelling is it, do you know ? It looks a large old 
house, but rather out of condition.” 

“ It belongs to a very rich, and, it is said, very miserly old 
patrician. But, look ! there come some more.” 

At that moment a very feeble man, bent down by age, was 
approaching, supported by a young and cheerful girl, who 
chatted most kindly to him as she supported him. 

1 The Vicus Patricius. 


E 


66 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


“ We are just there,” she said to him ; “ a few more steps, 
and you shall sit down and rest.” 

“Thank you, my child,” replied the poor old man; “how 
kind of you to come for me so early ! ” 

“ I knew,” she said, “ you would want help ; and as I am 
the most useless person about, I thought I would go and fetch 
you.” 

“ I have always heard that blind people are selfish, and it 
seems but natural; but you, Caecilia, are certainly an exception.” 

“Not at all ; this is only my way of showing selfishness.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” 

“ Why, first, I get the advantage of your eyes, and then I 
get the satisfaction of supporting you. £ I was an eye to the 
blind,’ that is you ; and ‘a foot to the lame,’ that is myself.” 1 

They reached the door as she spoke these words. 

“ That girl is blind,” said Fulvius to Corvinus. “ Do you 
not see how straight she walks, without looking right or 
left?” 

“ So she is,” answered the other. “ Surely this is not the 
place so often spoken of, where beggars meet, and the blind 
see, and the lame walk, and all feast together? But yet I 
observed these people were so different from the mendicants 
on the Arician bridge . 2 They appeared respectable and even 
cheerful ; and not one asked me for alms as he passed.” 

“ It is very strange ; and I should like to discover the 
mystery. A good job might, perhaps, be got out of it. The 
old patrician, you say, is very rich ? ” 

“ Immensely ! ” 

“ Humph ! How could one manage to get in ? ” 

“ I have it ! I will take off my shoes, screw up one leg like 
a cripple, and join the next group of queer ones that come, and 
go boldly in, doing as they do.” 

“That will hardly succeed; depend upon it every one of 
these people is known at the house.” 

“ I am sure not, for several of them asked me if this was the 
house of the Lady Agnes.” 

“Of whom?” asked Fulvius, with a start. 

“ Why do you look so ? ” said Corvinus. “It is the house 
of her parents : but she is better known than they, as being a 
young heiress, nearly as rich as her cousin Fabiola.” 

Fulvius paused for a moment ; a strong suspicion, too subtle 

1 Job xxix. 15. 

2 The place most noted in the neighbourhood of Rome for whining and 
importunate beggars. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 67 

and important to be communicated to his rude companion, 
flashed through his mind. He said, therefore, to Corvinus — 

“ If you are sure that these people are not familiar at the 
house, try your plan. I have met the lady before, and will 
venture by the front door. Thus we shall have a double 
chance.” 

“ Do you know what I am thinking, Fulvius ? ” 

“ Something very bright, no doubt.” 

“That when you and I join in any enterprise, we shall 
always have two chances.” 

“ What are they ? ” 

“The fox’s and the wolfs, when they conspire to rob a 
fold.” 

Fulvius cast on him a look of disdain, which Corvinus 
returned by a hideous leer; and they separated for their 
respective posts. 


CHAPTER Xlir 

CHARITY 

As we do not choose to enter the house of Agnes either with 
the wolf or with the fox, we will take a more spiritual mode of 
doing so, and find oui selves at once inside. 

The parents of Agnes represented noble lines of ancestry, 
and her family was not one of recent conversion, but had 
for several generations professed the faith. As in heathen 
families was cherished the memory of ancestors who had won a 
triumph, or held high offices in the state, so in this, and other 
Christian houses, was preserved with pious reverence and affec- 
tionate pride, the remembrance of those relations who had, in 
the last hundred and fifty years or more, borne the palm of 
martyrdom, or occupied the sublimer dignities of the Church. 
But, though ennobled thus, and with a constant stream of 
blood poured forth for Christ, accompanying the waving 
branches of the family-tree, the stem had never been hewn 
down, but had survived repeated storms. This may appear 
surprising; but when we reflect how many a soldier goes 
through a whole campaign of frequent actions and does not 
receive a wound, or how many a family remains untainted 
through a plague, we cannot be surprised if Providence watched 
over the well-being of the Church, by preserving in it, through 
old family successions, long unbroken chains of tradition, and 


68 


f abiola ; or, 

so enabling the faithful to say : “ Unless the Lord of Hosts 
had left us seed, we had been as Sodom, and we should have 
been like to Gomorrha .” 1 

All the honours and the hopes of this family centred now 
in one, whose name is already known to our readers, Agnes, 
the only child of that ancient house. Given to her parents as 
they had reached the very verge of hope that their line could 
be continued, she had been from infancy blest with such* a 
sweetness of disposition, such a docility and intelligence of 
mind, and such simplicity and innocence of character, that 
she had grown up the common object of love, and almost 
of reverence, to the entire house, from her parents down to 
the lowest servant. Yet nothing seemed to spoil or warp the 
compact virtuousness of her nature; but her good qualities 
expanded with a well-balanced adjustment which, at the early 
age in which we find her, had ripened into combined grace 
and wisdom. She shared all her parents’ virtuous thoughts, 
and cared as little for the world as they. She lived with them 
in a small portion of the mansion which was fitted up with 
elegance though not with luxury, and their establishment was 
adequate to all their wants. Here they received the few friends 
with whom they preserved familiar relations, though, as they 
did not entertain nor go out, these were few. Fabiola was an 
occasional visitor, though Agnes preferred going to see her at 
her house; and she often expressed to her young friend her 
longing for the day when, meeting with a suitable match, she 
would re-embellish and open all the splendid dwelling. For, 
notwithstanding the Voconian law “ on the inheritance of 
women ,” 2 now quite obsolete, Agnes had received from col- 
lateral sources large personal additions to the family property. 

In general, of course, the heathen world, who visited, attri- 
buted appearances to avarice, and calculated what immense 
accumulations of wealth the miserly parents must be putting 
by, and concluded that all beyond the solid screen which shut 
up the second court was left to fall into decay and ruin. 

It was not so, however. The inner part of the house, con- 
sisting of a large court, and the garden, with a detached 
dining-hall, or triclinium, turned into a church, and the upper 
portion of the house accessible from those parts, were devoted 
to the administration of that copious charity which the Church 
carried on as a business of its life. It was under the care and 

1 Isa. i. 9. 

2 “ Ne quis hseredem virginem neque mulierem faceret,” that no one 
should leave a virgin or a woman his heiress . — Cicero in Verrem. i. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 69 

direction of the deacon Reparatus, and his exorcist Secundus, 
officially appointed by the supreme Pontiff to take care of the 
sick, poor, and strangers in one of the seven regions into which 
Pope Cajus, about five years before, had divided the city for this 
purpose, committing each region to one of the seven deacons of 
the Roman Church. 

Rooms were set apart for lodging strangers who came from 
a distance recommended by other churches, and a frugal table 
was provided for them. Upstairs were apartments for an 
hospital for the bed-ridden, the decrepit, and the sick, under 
the care of the deaconesses, and such of the faithful as loved 
to assist in this work of charity. It was here that the blind 
girl had her cell, though she refused to take her food, as we 
have seen, in the house. The tablinum, or muniment-room, 
which generally stood detached in the middle of the passage 
between the inner courts, served as the office and archives for 
transacting the business of this charitable establishment, and 
preserving all local documents, such as the acts of martyrs, 
procured or compiled by the one of the seven notaries kept for 
that purpose by institution of St. Clement I., who was attached 
to that region. 

A door of communication allowed the household to assist in 
these works of charity, and Agnes had been accustomed from 
childhood to run in and out many times a day, and to pass 
hours there, always beaming, like an angel of light, consolation 
and joy on the suffering and distressed. This house, then, 
might be called the almonry of the region or district of charity 
and hospitality in which it was situated, and it was accessible 
for these purposes through the posticu?n or back door, situated 
in a narrow lane little frequented. No wonder that with 
such an establishment the fortune of the inmates should find 
an easy application. 

We heard Pancratius request Sebastian to arrange for the 
distribution of his plate and jewels among the poor, without 
its being known to whom they belonged.. He had not lost 
sight of the commission, and had fixed on the house of Agnes 
as the fittest for this purpose. On the morning which we have 
described, the distribution had to take place ; other regions 
had sent their poor, accompanied by their deacons ; while 
Sebastian, Pancratius, and other persons of higher rank had 
come in through the front door to assist in the division. Some 
of these had been seen to enter by Corvinus. 


70 


fabiola; or, 


CHAPTER XIV 

EXTREMES MEET 

A group of poor coming opportunely towards the door, enabled 
Corvinus to tack himself to them, — an admirable counterfeit, 
in all but the modesty of their deportment. He kept suffi- 
ciently close to them to hear that each of them, as he entered 
in, pronounced the words, “ Deo gratias” “ Thanks be to God.” 
This was not merely a Christian, but a Catholic pass-word ; for 
St. Augustine tells us that heretics ridiculed Catholics for using 
it, on the ground that it was not a salutation but rather a reply ; 
but that Catholics employed it because consecrated by pious 
usage. It is yet heard in Italy on similar occasions. 

Corvinus pronounced the mystic words, and was allowed to 
pass. Following the others closely, and copying their manners 
and gestures, he found himself in the inner court of the house, 
which was already filled with the poor and infirm. The men 
were ranged on one side, the women on the other. Under 
the portico at the end were tables piled with costly plate, and 
near them was another covered with brilliant jewellery. Two 
silver and gold smiths were weighing and valuing most con- 
scientiously this property; and beside them was the money 
which they would give to be distributed amongst the poor in 
just proportion. 

Corvinus eyed all this with a gluttonous heart. He would 
have given anything to get it all, and almost thought of making 
a dash at something, and running out. But he saw at once 
the folly or madness of such a course, and resolved to wait 
for a share, and in the meantime take note for Fulvius of all 
he saw. He soon, however, became aware of the awkwardness 
of his present position. While the poor were all mixed up 
together and moving about, he remained unnoticed. But he 
soon saw several young men of peculiarly gentle manners, but 
active, and evidently in authority, dressed in the garment 
known to him by the name of Dalmatic, from its Dalmatian 
origin ; that is, having over the tunic, instead of the toga, a 
close-fitting shorter tunicle, with ample, but not over long or 
wide sleeves ; the dress adopted and worn by the deacons, not 
only at their more solemn ministrations in church, but also 
when engaged in the discharge of their secondary duties about 
the sick and poor. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS *J I 

These officers went on marshalling the attendants, each 
evidently knowing those of his own district, and conducting 
them to a peculiar spot within the porticoes. But as no one 
recognised or claimed Corvinus for one of his poor, he was at 
length left alone in the middle of the court. Even his dull 
mind could feel the anomalous situation into which he had 
thrust himself. Here he was, the son of the Prefect of the 
city, whose duty it was to punish such violators of domestic 
rights, an intruder into the innermost parts of a nobleman’s 
house, having entered by a cheat, dressed like a beggar, and 
associating himself with such people, of course for some 
sinister, or at least unlawful purpose. He looked towards the 
door, meditating an escape ; but he saw it guarded by an old 
man named Diogenes and his two stout sons, who could hardly 
restrain their hot blood at this insolence, though they only 
showed it by scowling looks, and repressive biting of their lips. 
He saw fi:at he was a subject of consultation among the young 
deacons, who cast occasional glances towards him ; he imagined 
that even the blind were staring at him, and the decrepit ready 
to wield their crutches like battle-axes against him. He had 
only one consolation ; it was evident he was not known, and 
he hoped to frame some excuse for getting out of the scrape. 

At length the deacon Reparatus came up to him, and thus 
courteously accosted him — 

“ Friend, you probably do not belong to one of the regions 
invited here to-day. Where do you live ? ” 

“ In the region of the Alta Semita.” 1 

This answer gave the civil, not the ecclesiastical, division of 
Roma Still Reparatus went on : “ The Alta Semita is in my 
region, yet I do not remember to have seen you.” 

While he spoke these words he was astonished to see the 
stranger turn deadly pale, and totter as if about to fall, while 
his eyes were fixed upon the door of communication with the 
dwelling-house. Reparatus looked in the same direction, and 
saw Pancratius, just entered, and gathering some hasty infor- 
mation from Secundus. Corvinus’s last hope was gone. He 
stood the next moment confronted with the youth (who asked 
Reparatus to retire), much in the same position as they had 
last met in, only that, instead of a circle round him of ap- 
plauders and backers, he was here hemmed in on all sides by 
a multitude who evidently looked with preference upon his 
rival. Nor could Corvinus help observing the graceful develop- 

1 The upper part of the Quirinal, leading to the Nomentan gate. Porta 
Pia. 


72 fabiola; or, 

ment and manly bearing which a few weeks had given his late 
schoolmate. He expected a volley of keen reproach, and 
perhaps such chastisement as he would himself have inflicted 
in similar circumstances. What was his amazement when 
Pancratius thus addressed him in the mildest tone — 

“ Corvinus, are you really reduced to distress and lamed by 
some accident ? Or how have you left your father’s house ? ” 
“Not quite come to that yet, I hope,” replied the bully, 
encouraged to insolence by the gentle address, “though, no 
doubt, you would be heartily glad to see it” 

“ By no means, I assure you ; I hold you no grudge. If, 
therefore, you require relief, tell me ; and though it is not right 
that you should be here, I can take you into a private chamber 
where you can receive it unknown.” 

“ Then I will tell you the truth : I came in here merely for a 
freak, and I should be glad if you could get me quietly out.” 

“ Corvinus,” said the youth, with some sternness, “ this is a 
serious offence. What would your father say if I desired these 
young men, who would instantly obey, to take you as you are, 
barefoot, clothed as a slave, counterfeiting a cripple, into the 
Forum before his tribunal, and publicly charge you with what 
every Roman would resent, forcing your way into the heart of 
a patrician’s house?” 

“For the gods’ sakes, good Pancratius, do not inflict such 
frightful punishment.” 

“You know, Corvinus, that your own father would be 
obliged to act towards you the part of Junius Brutus, or forfeit 
his office.” 

“ I entreat you by all that you love, by all that you hold 
sacred, not to dishonour me and mine so cruelly. My father 
and his house, not I, would be crushed and ruined for ever. 
I will go on my knees and beg your pardon for my former 
injuries if you will only be merciful.” 

“ Hold, hold, Corvinus, I have told you that was long for- 
gotten. But hear me now. Every one but the blind around 
you is a witness to this outrage. There will be a hundred 
evidences to prove it. If ever, then, you speak of this assembly, 
still more if you attempt to molest any one for it, we shall have 
it in our power to bring you to trial at your own father’s judg- 
ment seat. Do you understand me, Corvinus ? ” 

“ I do, indeed,” replied the captive, in a whining tone. 
“ Never, as long as I live, will I breathe to mortal soul that I 

came into this dreadful place. I swear it by the ” 

“ Hush, hush ! we want no such oaths here. Take my arm. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 73 

and walk with me.” Then turning to the others, he continued : 
“ I know this person ; his coming here is quite a mistake.” 

The spectators, who had taken the wretch’s supplicating 
gestures and tone for accompaniments to a tale of woe and 
strong application for relief, joined in crying out, “ Pancratius, 
you will not send him away fasting and unsuccoured ! ” 

“Leave that to me,” was the reply. The self-appointed 
porters gave way before Pancratius, who led Corvinus, still 
pretending to limp, into the street, and dismissed him, saying, 
“Corvinus, we are now quits; only, take care of your promise.” 

Fulvius, as we have seen, went to try his fortune by the front 
door. He found it, according to Roman custom, unlocked ; 
and, indeed, no one could have suspected the possibility of a 
stranger entering at such an hour. Instead of a porter, he 
found, guarding the door, only a simple-looking girl about 
twelve or thirteen years of age, clad in a peasant’s garment. 
No one else was near, and he thought it an excellent oppor- 
tunity to verify the strong suspicion which had crossed his 
mind. Accordingly, he thus addressed the little portress. 

“ What is your name, child, and who are you?” 

“ I am,” she replied, “ Emerentiana, the Lady Agnes’s foster- 
sister.” 

“Are you a Christian ? ” he asked her sharply. 

The poor little peasant opened her eyes in the amazement 
of ignorance and replied, “No, sir.” It was impossible to 
resist the evidence of her simplicity, and Fulvius was satisfied 
that he was mistaken. The fact was that she was the daughter 
of a peasant who had been Agnes’s nurse. The mother had 
just died, and her kind sister had sent for the orphan daughter, 
intending to have her instructed and baptized. She had only 
arrived a day or two before, and was yet totally ignorant of 
Christianity. 

Fulvius stood embarrassed what to do next. Solitude made 
him feel as awkwardly situated as a crowd was making Corvi- 
nus. He thought of retreating, but this would have destroyed 
all his hopes ; he was going to advance, when he reflected that 
he might commit himself unpleasantly. At this critical junc- 
ture, whom should he see coming lightly across the court but 
the youthful mistress of the house, all joy, all spring, all bright- 
ness and sunshine. As soon as she saw him she stood, as if 
to receive his errand, and he approached, with his blandest 
smile and most courtly gesture, and thus addressed her — 

“ I have anticipated the usual hour at which visitors come, 
and, I fear, must appear an intruder, Lady Agnes ; but I was 


7 4 FABIOLA ; OR, 

impatient to inscribe myself as an humble client of your noble 
house.” 

“Our house, she replied, smiling, “boasts of no clients, 
nor do we seek them, for we have no pretensions to influence 
or power.” 

“ Pardon me ; with such a ruler it possesses the highest 
of influences and the mightiest of powers, those which reign 
without effort over the heart as a most willing subject.” 

Incapable of imagining that such words could allude to 
herself, she replied, with artless simplicity — 

“ Oh, how true are your words ! the Lord of this house is 
indeed the sovereign over the affections of all within it.” 

“But I,” interposed Fulvius, “allude to that softer and 
benigner dominion, which graceful charms alone can exercise 
on those who from near behold them.” 

Agnes looked as one entranced; her eyes beheld a very 
different image before them from that of her wretched flat- 
terer; and with an impassioned glance towards heaven, she 
exclaimed — “Yes, He whose beauty sun and moon in their 
lofty firmament gaze on and admire, to Him is pledged my 
service and my love .” 1 

Fulvius was confounded and perplexed. The inspired look, 
the rapturous attitude, the music of the thrilling tones in which 
she uttered these words, their mysterious import, the strange- 
ness of the whole scene, fastened him to the spot and sealed 
his lips ; till, feeling that he was losing the most favourable 
opportunity he could ever expect of opening his mind (affec- 
tion it could not be called) to her, he boldly said, “ It is of 
you I am speaking ; and I entreat you to believe my expression 
of sincerest admiration of you, and of unbounded attachment 
to you.” As he uttered these words he dropped on his knee, 
and attempted to take her hand ; but the maiden bounded back 
with a shudder, and turned away her burning countenance. 

Fulvius started in an instant to his feet, for he saw Sebas- 
tian, who was come to summon Agnes to the poor, impatient 
of her absence, striding forwards towards him, with an air of 
indignation. 

“ Sebastian,” said Agnes to him, as he approached, “ be not 
angry ; this gentleman has probably entered here by some un- 
intentional mistake, and no doubt will quietly retire.” Saying 
this, she withdrew. 

Sebastian, with his calm but energetic manner, now addressed 

1 “ Cujus pulchritudinem sol et luna mirantur, ipsi soli servo fidetn.” — 
Office of St. Agnes, 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 7$ 

the intruder, who quailed beneath his look : “ Fulvius, what do 
you here ? what business has brought you ? ” 

“ I suppose,” answered he, regaining courage, “ that having 
met the lady of the house at the same place with you, her 
noble cousin’s table, I have a right to wait upon her, in common 
with other voluntary clients.” 

“ But not at so unreasonable an hour as this, I presume ? ” 

‘‘The hour that is not unreasonable for a young officer,” 
retorted Fulvius insolently, “ is not, I trust, so for a civilian.” 

Sebastian had to use all his power of self-control to check 
his indignation, as he replied — 

“ Fulvius, be not rash in what you say ; but remember that 
two persons may be on a very different footing in a house. 
Yet not even the longest familiarity, still less a one dinner’s ac- 
quaintance, can authorise or justify the audacity of your bearing 
towards the young mistress of this house a few moments ago.” 

“ Oh, you are jealous, I suppose, brave captain ! ” replied 
Fulvius, with his most refined sarcastic tone. “ Report says 
that you are the acceptable, if not accepted, candidate for 
Fabiola’s hand. She is now in the country; and, no doubt, 
you wish to make sure for yourself of the fortune of one or 
the other of Rome’s richest heiresses. There is nothing like 
having two strings to one’s bow.” 

This coarse and bitter sarcasm wounded the noble officer’s 
best feelings to the quick ; and had he not long before disci- 
plined himself to Christian meekness, his blood would have 
proved too powerful for his reason. 

“ It is not good for either of us, Fulvius, that you * remain 
longer here. The courteous dismissal of the noble lady whom 
you have insulted has not sufficed ; I must be the ruder exe- 
cutor of her command.” Saying this, he took the unbidden 
guest’s arm in his powerful grasp, and conducted him to the 
door. When he had put him outside, still holding him fast, 
he added, “Go now, Fulvius, in peace; and remember that 
you have this day made yourself amenable to the laws of the 
state by this unworthy conduct. I will spare you, if you know 
how to keep your own counsel ; but it is well that you should 
know that I am acquainted with your occupation in Rome; 
and that I hold this morning’s insolence over your head as a 
security that you will follow it discreetly. Now, again I say, 
go in peace.” 

But he had no sooner let go his grasp, than he felt himself 
seized from behind by an unseen, but evidently an athletic, 
assailant. It was Eurotas, from whom Fulvius durst conceal 


7 6 FABIOLA ; OR, 

nothing, and to whom he had confided the intended interview 
with Corvinus, that had followed and watched him. From 
the black slave he had before learnt the mean and coarse 
character of this client of her magical arts; and he feared 
some trap. When he saw the seeming struggle at the door, 
he ran stealthily behind Sebastian, who, he fancied, must be 
his pupil’s new ally, and pounced upon him with a bear’s rude 
assault. But he had no common rival to deal with. He 
attempted in vain, though now helped by Fulvius, to throw 
the soldier heavily down; till, despairing of success in this 
way, he detached from his girdle a small but deadly weapon, 
a steel mace of finished Syrian make, and was raising it over 
the back of Sebastian’s head, when he felt it wrenched in a trice 
from his hand, and himself twirled two or three times round, 
in an iron gripe, and flung flat in the middle of the street. 

“I am afraid you have hurt the poor fellow, Quadratus,” 
said Sebastian to his centurion, who was coming up at that 
moment to join his fellow-Christians, and was of most Her- 
culean make and strength. 

“He well deserves it, tribune, for his cowardly assault,’' 
replied the other, as they re-entered the house. 

The two foreigners, crestfallen, slunk away from the scene 
of their defeat ; and as they turned the corner, caught a glimpse 
of Corvinus, no longer limping, but running as fast as his legs 
would carry him from his discomfiture at the back door. How- 
ever often they may have met afterwards, neither ever alluded 
to their feats of that morning. Each knew that the other had 
incurred only failure and shame, and they came both to the 
conclusion that there was one fold at least in Rome which 
either fox or wolf would assail in vain. 


CHAPTER XV 
CHARITY RETURNS 

When calm had been restored, after this twofold disturbance, 
the work of the day went quietly on. Besides the distribution 
of greater alms, such as was made by St. Laurence from the 
Church, it was by no means so uncommon in early ages for 
fortunes to be given away at once by those who wished to 
retire from the world . 1 Indeed we should naturally expect 

1 We have it recorded of Nepotian, that on his conversion he distributed 
all his property to the poor. St, Paulinus of Nola did the same, 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 77 

to find that the noble charity of the Apostolic Church at -Jeru- 
salem would not be a barren example to that of Rome. But 
this extraordinary charity would be most naturally suggested 
at periods when the Church was threatened with persecution ; 
and when Christians, who from position and circumstances 
might look forward to martyrdom, would, to use a homely 
phrase, clear their hearts and houses for action, by removing 
from both whatever could attach themselves to earth, and 
become the spoil of the impious soldier, instead of having 
been made the inheritance of the poor . 1 

Nor would the great principles be forgotten of making the 
light of good works to shine before men, while the hand which 
filled the lamp poured in its oil in the secret, which only He 
who seeth in secret can penetrate. The plate and jewels of a 
noble family publicly valued, sold, and, in their price, distri- 
buted to the poor, must have been a bright example of charity, 
which consoled the Church, animated the generous, shamed 
the avaricious, touched the heart of the catechumen, and drew 
blessings and prayers from the lips of the poor. And yet the 
individual right hand that gave them remained closely shrouded 
from the scrutiny or consciousness of the left ; and the humility 
and modesty of the noble giver remained concealed in His 
bosom, into which these earthly treasures were laid up, to be 
returned with boundless and eternal usury. 

And such was the case in the instance before us. When all 
was prepared, Dionysius the priest, who at the same time was 
the physician to whom the care of the sick was committed, and 
who had succeeded Polycarp in the title of St. Pastor, made 
his appearance, and, seated in a chair at one end of the court, 
thus addressed the assembly : 

“Dear brethren, our merc’ful God has touched the heart of 
some charitable brother, to have compassion on his poorer 
brethren, and strip himself of much worldly possession, for 
Christ’s sake. Who he is I know not; nor would I seek to 
know. He is some one who loves not to have his treasures 
where rust consumes, and thieves break in and steal, but 
prefers, like the blessed Laurence, that they should be borne 
up, by the hands of Christ’s poor, into the heavenly treasury. 

“Accept then, as a gift from God, who has inspired this 
charity, the distribution which is about to be made, and which 
may be a useful help, in the days of tribulation, which are 
preparing for us. And as the only return which is desired 

1 “Dabisimpio militi quod non vis dare sacerdoti, et hoc tollit fiscus, 
quod non accipit Christus.” — St. Aug. 


FABIOLA J OR, 


78 

from -you, join all in that familiar prayer, which we daily recite 
for those who give or do us good.” 

During this brief address, poor Pancratius knew not which 
way to look. He had shrunk into a corner behind the assis- 
tants, and Sebastian had compassionately stood before him, 
making himself as large as possible. And his emotion did all 
but betray him, when the whole of that assembly knelt down, 
and with outstretched hands, uplifted eyes, and fervent tone, 
cried out, as if with one voice — 

“ Retribuere dignare , Domine^ omnibus nobis bona facientibus , 
propter Nomen tuum, vitam ceternam. Amen .” 1 

The alms were then distributed, and they proved unexpec- 
tedly large. Abundant food was also served out to all, and a 
cheerful banquet closed the edifying scene. It was yet early : 
indeed many partook not of food, as a still more delicious and 
spiritual feast was about to be prepared for them in the neigh- 
bouring titular church. 

When all was over, Csecilia insisted upon seeing her poor 
old cripple safe home, and upon carrying for him his heavy 
canvas purse ; and chatted so cheerfully to him, that he was 
surprised when he found they had reached the door of his 
poor but clean lodging. His blind guide then thrust his purse 
into his hand, and giving him a hurried good-day, tripped 
away most lightly, and was soon lost to his sight. The bag 
seemed uncommonly full ; so he counted carefully its contents, 
and found, to his amazement, that he had a double portion. 
He tried again, and still it was so. At the first opportunity, 
he made inquiries from Reparatus, but could get no explana- 
tion. If he had seen Caecilia, when she had turned the corner, 
laugh outright, as if she had been playing some one a good 
trick, and running as lightly as if she had nothing heavy about 
her, he might have discovered a solution of the problem of his 
wealth. 


CHAPTER XVI 
THE MONTH OF OCTOBER 

The month of October in Italy is certainly a glorious season. 
The sun has contracted his heat, but not his splendour ; he is 
less scorching, but not less bright. As he rises in the morning, 

1 “ Be pleased to render, O Lord, eternal life to all who for Thy Name’s 
sake do unto us good things.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


79 

he dashes sparks of radiance over awaking nature, as an Indian 
prince, upon entering his presence-chamber, flings handfuls of 
gems and gold into the crowd ; and the mountains seem to 
stretch forth their rocky heads, and the woods to wave their 
lofty arms, in eagerness to catch his royal largess. And after 
careering through a cloudless sky, when he reaches his goal, 
and finds his bed spread with molten gold on the western sea, 
and canopied above with purple clouds, edged with burnished 
yet airy fringes, more brilliant than Ophir supplied to the couch 
of Solomon, he expands himself into a huge disk of most be- 
nignant effulgence, as if to bid farewell to his past course; 
but soon sends back, after disappearing, radiant messengers 
from the world he is visiting and cheering, to remind us he will 
soon come back, and gladden us again. If less powerful, his 
ray is certainly richer and more active. It has taken months to 
draw out of the sapless, shrivelled vine-stem, first green leaves, 
then crisp slender tendrils, and last little clusters of hard sour 
berries ; and the growth has been provokingly slow. But now 
the leaves are large and mantling, and worthy in vine-countries 
to have a name of their own ; 1 and the separated little knots 
have swelled up into luxurious bunches of grapes. And of 
these some are already assuming their bright amber tint, while 
those which are to glow in rich imperial purple, are passing 
rapidly to it, through a changing opal hue, scarcely less beautiful. 

It is pleasant then to sit in a shady spot, on a hill-side, and 
look ever and anon, from one’s book, over the varied and 
varying landscape. For, as the breeze sweeps over the olives 
on the hill-side, and turns over their leaves, it brings out from 
them light and shade, for their two sides vary in sober tint ; 
and as the sun shines, or the cloud darkens, on the vineyards, 
in the rounded hollows between, the brilliant web of unstirring 
vine-leaves displays a yellower or browner shade of its delicious 
green. Then, mingle with these the innumerable other colours 
that tinge the picture, from the dark cypress, the duller ilex, 
the rich chestnut, the reddening orchard, the adust stubble, 
the melancholy pine — to Italy what the palm-tree is to the 
East — towering above the box, and the arbutus, and laurels of 
villas, and these scattered all over the mountain, hill, and plain, 
with fountains leaping up, and cascades gliding down, porticoes 
of glittering marble, statues of bronze and stone, painted fronts 
of rustic dwellings, with flowers innumerable, and patches of 
greensward ; and you have a faint idea of the attractions which, 
for this month, as in our days, used to draw out the Roman 

1 Pampinus , pampino. 


80 fabiola; or, 

patrician and knight, from what Horace calls the clatter and 
smoke of Rome, to feast his eyes upon the calmer beauties of 
the country. 

And so, as the happy month approached, villas were seen 
open to let in air ; and innumerable slaves were busy, dusting 
and scouring, trimming the hedges into fantastic shapes, clear- 
ing the canals for the artificial brooklets, and plucking up the 
weeds from the gravel-walks. The villicus or country steward 
superintends all ; and with sharp word, or sharper lash, makes 
many suffer, that perhaps one only may enjoy. 

At last the dusty roads become encumbered with every 
species of vehicle, from the huge wain carrying furniture, and 
slowly drawn by oxen, to the light chariot or gig dashing on 
behind spirited barbs; and as the best roads were narrow, 
and the drivers of other days were not more smooth-tongued 
than those of ours, we may imagine what cpnfusion and noise 
and squabbling filled the public ways. ‘ Nor was there a 
favoured one among these. Sabine, Tusculan, and Alban 
hills were all studded over with splendid villas, or humbler 
cottages, such as a Maecenas or a Horace might respectively 
occupy ; even the flat Campagna of Rome is covered with the 
ruins of immense country residences ; while from the mouth 
of the Tiber, along the coast by Laurentum, Lanuvium, and 
Antium, and so on to Cajeta, Bajae, and other fashionable 
watering-places round Vesuvius, a street of noble residences 
may be said to have run. Nor were these limits sufficient to 
satisfy the periodical fever for rustication in Rome. The 
borders of Benacus (now the Lago Maggiore, north of Milan), 
Como, and the beautiful banks of the Brenta, received their 
visitors not from neighbouring cities only, still less from wan- 
derers of Germanic origin, but rather from the inhabitants of 
the imperial capital. 

It was to one of these “ tender eyes of Italy,” as Ptiny calls 
its villas , 1 because forming its truest beauty, that Fabiola had 
hastened, before the rush on the road, the day after her black 
slave’s interview with Corvinus. It was situated on the slope 
of the hill which descends to the bay of Gaeta ; and was re- 
markable, like her house, for the good taste which arranged 
the most costly, though not luxurious, elements of comfort. 
From the terrace in front of the elegant villa could be seen 
the calm azure bay, embowered in the richest of shores, like a 
mirror in an embossed and enamelled frame, relieved by the 
white sunlit sails of yachts, galleys, pleasure-boats, and fishing- 

1 Ocelli Italics. 



Triumphal Arch Temple of Ascent to the Temple of Temple of Concordia, 

of Severus. Saturn. Capitol. Vespasian. 

The northeast side of the Forum. 











THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 8 I 

skiffs ; from some of which rose the roaring laugh of excur- 
sionists, from others the song or harp-notes of family parties, 
or the loud, sharp, and not over-refined ditties of the various 
ploughmen of the deep. A gallery of lattice, covered with 
creepers, led to the baths on the shore; and half-way down 
was an opening on a favourite spot of green, kept ever fresh 
by the gush, from an out-cropping rock, of a crystal spring, 
confined for a moment in a natural basin, in which it bubbled 
and fretted, till, rushing over its ledge, it went down murmur- 
ing and chattering, in the most good-natured way imaginable, 
along the side of the trellis, into the sea. Two enormous plane- 
trees cast their shade over this classic ground, as did Plato’s and 
Cicero’s over their choice scenes of philosophical disquisition. 
The most beautiful flowers and plants from distant climates 
had been taught to make this spot their home, sheltered, as it 
was, equally from sultriness and from frost. 

Fabius, for reasons which will be explained later, seldom paid 
more than a flying visit for a couple of days to this villa ; and 
even then it was generally on his way to some gayer resort of 
Roman fashion, where he had, or pretended to have, business. 
His daughter was, therefore, mostly alone, and enjoyed a deli- 
cious solitude. Besides a well-furnished library always kept at 
the villa, chiefly containing works on agriculture, or of a local 
interest, a stock of books, some old favourites, other lighter 
productions of the season (of which she generally procured an 
early copy at a high price), was brought every year from Rome, 
together with a quantity of smaller familiar works of art, such 
as, distributed through new apartments, make them become a 
home. Most of her morning hours were spent in the cherished 
retreat just described, with a book-casket at her side, from which 
she selected first one volume, and then another. But any visitor 
calling upon her this year would have been surprised to find her 
almost always with a companion — and that a slave ! 

We may imagine how amazed she was when, the day follow- 
ing the dinner at her house, Agnes informed her that Syra had 
declined ‘ leaving her service, though tempted by a bribe of 
liberty. Still more astonished was she at learning that the 
reason was attachment to herself. She could feel no pleasur- 
able consciousness of having earned this affection by any acts 
of kindness, nor even by any decent gratitude for her servant’s 
care of her in illness. She was therefore at first inclined to 
think Syra a fool for her pains. But it would not do in her 
mind. It was true she had often read or heard of instances 
of fidelity and devotedness in slaves, even towards oppressive 

F 


82 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

masters ; 1 but these were always counted as exceptions to the 
general rule; and what were a few dozen cases, in as many 
centuries, of love, compared with the daily ten thousand ones 
of hatred around her? Yet here was a clear and palpable one 
at hand, and it struck her forcibly. She waited a time, and 
watched her maid eagerly, to see if she could discover in her 
conduct any airs, any symptom of thinking she had done a 
grand thing, and that her mistress must feel it. Not in the 
least. Syra pursued all her duties with the same simple dili- 
gence, and never betrayed any signs of believing herself less a 
slave than before. Fabiola’s heart softened more and more ; 
and she now began to think that not quite so difficult, which, in 
her conversation with Agnes, she had pronounced impossible 
— to love a slave. And she had also discovered a second evi- 
dence, that there was such a thing in the world as disinterested 
love, affection that asked for no return. • 

Her conversations with her slave, after the memorable one 
which we have recounted, had satisfied her that she had received 
a superior education. She was too delicate to question her on 
her early history, especially as masters often had young slaves 
highly educated, to enhance their value. But she soon dis- 
covered that she read Greek and Latin authors with ease and 
elegance, and wrote well in both languages. By degrees she 
raised her position, to the great annoyance of her companions : 
she ordered Euphrosyne to give her a separate room, the greatest 
of comforts to the poor maid, and she employed her near 
herself as a secretary and reader. Still she could perceive no 
change in her conduct, no pride, no pretensions; for the moment 
any work presented itself of the menial character formerly allotted 
to her, she never seemed to think of turning it over to any one 
else, but at once naturally and cheerfully set herself about it. 

The reading generally pursued by Fabiola was, as has been 
previously observed, of rather an abstruse and refined character, 
consisting of philosophical literature. She was surprised, how- 
ever, to find how her slave, by a simple remark, would often 
confute an apparently solid maxim, bring down a grand flight 
of virtuous declamation, or suggest a higher view of moral truth, 
or a more practical course of action than authors whom she had 
long admired proposed in their writings. Nor was this done 
by any apparent shrewdness of judgment or pungency of wit; 
nor did it seem to come from much reading, or deep thought, 
or superiority of education. For though she saw traces of this 

1 Such as are given by Macrobius in his Saturnalia , lib. i., and by 
Valerius Maximus. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 83 

in Syra’s words, ideas, and behaviour, yet the books and doc- 
trines which she was reading now were evidently new to her. 
But there seemed to be in her maid’s mind some latent but 
infallible standard of truth, some master-key which opened 
equally every closed deposit of moral knowledge, some well- 
attuned chord which vibrated in unfailing unison with what 
was just and right, but jangled in dissonance with whatever 
was wrong, vicious, or even inaccurate. What this secret was, 
she wanted to discover; it was more like an intuition, than 
anything she had before witnessed. She was not yet in a con- 
dition to learn that the meanest and least in the kingdom of 
heaven (and what lower than a slave?) was greater in spiritual 
wisdom, intellectual light, and heavenly privileges, than even 
the Baptist Precursor . 1 

It was on a delicious morning in October that, reclining by the 
spring, the mistress and slave were occupied in reading, when 
the former, wearied with the heaviness of the volume, looked 
for something lighter and newer ; and, drawing out a manu- 
script from her casket, said — 

“Syra, put that stupid book down. Here is something, I 
am told, very amusing, and only just come out. It will be 
new to both of us.” 

The handmaid did as she was told, looked at the title of 
the proposed volume, and blushed. She glanced over the few 
first lines, and her fears were confirmed. She saw that it was 
one of those trashy works which were freely allowed to circu- 
late, as St Justin complained, though grossly immoral, and 
making light of all virtue, while every Christian writing was 
suppressed, or as much as possible discountenanced. She put 
down the book with a calm resolution, and said — 

“ Do not, my good mistress, ask me to read to you from that 
book. It is fit neither for me to recite, nor for you to hear.” 

Fabiola was astonished. She had never heard, or even 
thought, of such a thing as restraint put upon her studies. 
What in our days would be looked upon as unfit for common 
perusal formed part of current and fashionable literature. 
From Horace to Ausonius, all classical writers demonstrate 
this. And what rule of virtue could have made that reading 
seem indelicate, which only described by the pen a system of 
morals which the pencil and the chisel made hourly familiar 
to every eye ? Fabiola had no higher standard of right and 
wrong than the system under which she had been educated 
could give her. 


1 Matt. xii. xi, 


84 fabiola; or, 

“ What possible harm can it do either of us ? ” she asked, 
smiling. “ I have no doubt there are plenty of foul crimes 
and wicked actions described in the book ; but it will not 
induce us to commit them ; and, in the meantime, it is amusing 
to read them of others.” 

“ Would you yourself, for any consideration, do them ? ” 

“Not for the world.” 

“ Yet, as you hear them read, their image must occupy your 
mind; as they amuse you, your thoughts must dwell upon 
them with pleasure.” 

“ Certainly. What then ? ” 

“That image is foulness, that thought is wickedness.” 

“ How is that possible ? Does not wickedness require an 
action to have any existence ? ” 

“True, my mistress ; and what is the action of the mind, or, 
as I call it, the soul, but thought ? A passion which wishes 
death is the action of this invisible power, like it, unseen ; the 
blow which inflicts it is but the mechanical action of the body, 
discernible like its origin. But which power commands, and 
which obeys ? In which resides the responsibility of the final 
effect?” 

“ I understand you,” said Fabiola, after a pause of some 
little mortification. “But one difficulty remains. There is 
responsibility, you maintain, for the inward as well as the out- 
ward act. To whom? If the second follow, there is joint 
responsibility for both to society, to the laws, to principles of 
justice, to self, for painful results will ensue. But if only the 
inward action exist, to whom can there be responsibility ? Who 
sees it ? Who can presume to judge it ? Who to control it ? ” 

“ God,” answered Syra, with simple earnestness. 

Fabiola was disappointed. She expected some new theory, 
some striking principle, to come out. Instead, they had sunk 
down into what she feared was mere superstition, though not 
so much as she once had deemed it. “What, Syra, do you 
then really believe in Jupiter, and Juno, or perhaps Minerva, 
who is about the most respectable of the Olympian family? 
Do you think they have anything to do with our affairs ? ” 

“ Far indeed from it ; I loathe their very names, and I detest 
the wickedness which their histories or fables symbolise on earth. 
No, I spoke not of gods and goddesses, but of one only God.” 

“And what do you call Him, Syra, in your system?” 

“He has no name but God ; and that only men have given 
Him, that they may speak of Him. It describes not His 
nature, His origin, His attributes.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 85 

“ And what are these ? ” asked the mistress* with awakened 
curiosity. 

“ Simple as light is His nature, one and the same everywhere, 
indivisible, undefilable, penetrating yet diffusive, ubiquitous and 
unlimited. He existed before there was any beginning ; He 
will exist after all ending has ceased. Power, wisdom, goodness, 
love, justice too, and unerring judgment belong to Him by His 
nature, and are as unlimited and unrestrained as it. He alone 
can create, He alone preserve, and He alone destroy.” 

Fabiolahad often read of the inspired looks which animated 
a sibyl, or the priestess of an oracle ; but she had never wit- 
nessed them till now. The slave’s countenance glowed, her 
eyes shone with a calm brilliancy, her frame was immovable, 
the words flowed from her lips, as if these were but the open- 
ing of a musical reed, made vocal by another’s breath. Her 
expression and manner forcibly reminded Fabiola of that ab- 
stracted and mysterious look, which she had so often noticed 
in Agnes ; and though in the child it was more tender and 
graceful, in the maid it seemed more earnest and oracular. 
“ How enthusiastic and excitable an Eastern temperament 
is, to be sure! ” thought Fabiola, as she gazed upon her slave. 
“ No wonder the East should be thought the land of poetry 
and inspiration.” When she saw Syra relaxed from the evident 
tension of her mind, she said, in as light a tone as she could 
assume : “ But, Syra, can you think, that a Being such as you 
have described, far beyond all the conception of ancient fable, 
can occupy Himself with constantly watching the actions, 
still more the paltry thoughts, of millions of creatures?” 

“ It is no occupation, lady, it is not even choice. I called 
Him light. Is it occupation or labour to the sun to send his 
rays through the crystal of this fountain, to the very pebbles in its 
bed ? See how of themselves they disclose, not only the beauti- 
ful, but the foul that harbours there ; not only the sparkles that 
the falling drops strike from its rough sides ; not only the pearly 
bubbles that merely rise, glisten for a moment, then break against 
the surface ; not only the golden fish that bask in their light, but 
black and loathsome greeping things, which seek to hide and bury 
themselves in dark nooks below, and cannot, for the light pursues 
them. Is there toil or occupation in all this to the sun that thus 
visits them ? Far more would it appear so were he to restrain 
his beams at the surface of the transparent element, and hold 
them back from throwing it into light. And what he does here 
he does in the next stream, and in that which is a thousand miles 
off, with equal ease ; nor can any imaginable increase of their 


86 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

number, or bulk, lead us to fancy, or believe, that rays would 
be wanting, or light would fail, to scrutinise them all.” 

“Your theories are beautiful always, Syra, and, if true, most 
wonderful,” observed Fabiola, after a pause, during which her 
eyes were fixedly contemplating the fountain, as though she 
were testing the truth of Syra’s words. 

“And they sound like truth,” she added; “for could false- 
hood be more beautiful than truth ? But what an awful idea, 
that one has never been alone, has never had a wish to oneself, 
has never held a single thought in secret, has never hidden the 
most foolish fancy of a proud or childish brain, from the ob 
servation of One that knows no imperfection. Terrible thought, 
that one is living, if you say true, under the steady gaze of an 
Eye, of which the sun is but a shadow, for he enters not the 
soul ! It is enough to make one any evening commit self- 
destruction, to get rid of the torturing watchfulness ! Yet it 
sounds so tr ue ! ” 

Fabiola looked almost wild as she spoke these words. The 
pride of her pagan heart rose strong within her, and she re- 
belled against the supposition that she could never again feel 
alone with her own thoughts, or that any power should exist 
which could control her inmost desires, imaginings, or caprices. 
Still the thought came back, “Yet it seems so true!” Her 
generous intellect struggled against the writhing passion, like 
an eagle with a serpent, more with eye than with beak and 
talons, subduing the quailing foe. After a struggle, visible in 
her countenance and gestures, a calm came over her. She 
seemed for the first time to feel the presence of One greater 
than herself, some One whom she feared, yet whom she would 
wish to love. She bowed down her mind, she bent her intel- 
ligence to His feet, and her heart, too, owned for the first time 
that it had a Master and a Lord. 

Syra, with calm intensity of feeling, silently watched the 
workings of her mistress’s mind. She knew how much de- 
pended on their issue, what a mighty step in her unconscious 
pupil’s religious progress was involved in the recognition of the 
truth before her, and she fervently prayed for this grace. 

At length Fabiola raised her head, which seemed to have 
been bowed down in accompaniment to her mind, and with 
graceful kindness said — 

“ Syra, I am sure I have not yet reached the depths of your 
knowledge ; you must have much more to teach me.” (A tear 
and a blush came to the poor handmaid’s relief.) “ But to-day 
you have opened a new world and a new life to my thoughts 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 87 

— a sphere of virtue beyond the opinions and the judgments 
of men, a consciousness of a controlling, an approving, and a 
reu'arding Power, too — am I right ? ” — (Syra expressed appro- 
bation) — “ standing by us when no other eye can see, or restrain, 
or encourage us ; a feeling that, were we shut up for ever in 
solitude, we should be ever the same, because that influence 
on us must be so superior to that of any amount of human 
principles, in guiding us, and could not leave us — such, if I 
understand your theory, is the position of moral elevation in 
which it would place each individual. To fall below it, even 
with an outwardly virtuous life, is mere deceit and positive 
wickedness. Is this so ? ” 

“ Oh, my dear mistress,” exclaimed Syra, “ how much better 
you can express all this than I ! ” 

“You have never flattered me yet, Syra,” replied Fabiola 
smilingly ; “ do not begin now. But you have thrown a new 
light upon other subjects, till to-day obscure to me. Tell me, 
now, was it not this you meant when you once told me that, 
in your view, there was no distinction between mistress and 
slave — that is, that as the distinction is only outward, bodily 
and social, it is not to be put in comparison with that equality 
which exists before your Supreme Being, and that possible 
moral superiority which He might see of the one over the 
other, inversely of their visible rank ? ” 

“ It was in a great measure so, my noble lady, though there 
are other considerations involved in the idea which would 
hardly interest you at present.” 

“ And yet, when you stated that proposition, it seemed to 
me so monstrous, so absurd, that pride and anger overcame 
me. Do you remember that, Syra ? ” 

“ Oh, no, no ! ” replied the gentle servant ; “ do not allude 
to it, I pray ! ” 

“ Have you forgiven me that day, Syra ? ” said the mistress, 
with an emotion quite new to her. 

The poor maid was overpowered. She rose and threw her- 
self on her knees before her mistress, and tried to seize her 
hand ; but she prevented her, and for the first time in her life 
Fabiola threw herself upon a slave’s neck and wept. 

Her passion of tears was long and tender. Her heart was 
getting above her intellect, and this can only be by its increas- 
ing softness. At length she grew calm ; and as she withdrew 
her embrace she said: “One thing more, Syra: dare one 
address, by worship, this Being whom you have described to 
me ? Is He not too great, too lofty, too distant, for this ? ” 


88 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

“ Oh, no ! far from it, noble lady,” answered the servant 
“ He is not distant from any of us ; for as much as in the 
light of the sun, so in the very splendour of His might, His 
kindness, and His wisdom, we live and move and have our 
being. Hence, one may address Him, not as far off, but as 
around us and within us, while we are in Him; and He hears 
us not with ears, but our words drop at once into His very 
bosom, and the desires of our hearts pass directly into the 
divine abyss of His.” 

“ But,” pursued Fabiola, somewhat timidly, “is there no 
great act of acknowledgment, such as sacrifice is supposed to 
be, whereby He may be formally recognised and adored ?” 

Syra hesitated, for the conversation seemed to be trenching 
upon mysterious and sacred ground, never opened by the 
Church to profane foot. She, however, answered in a simple 
and general affirmative. 

“ And could not I,” still more humbly asked her mistress, 
‘ 4 be so far instructed in your school as to be able to perform 
this sublimer act of homage ? ” 

“ I fear not, noble Fabiola ; one must needs obtain a Victim 
worthy of the Deity.” 

“ Ah, yes ! to be sure,” answered Fabiola. “ A bull may be 
good enough for Jupiter, or a goat for Bacchus ; but where can 
be found a sacrifice worthy of Him whom you have brought me 
to know?” 

“ It must indeed be one every way worthy of Him, spot- 
less in purity, matchless in greatness, unbounded in accept- 
ableness.” 

“ And what can that be, Syra ? ” 

“ Only Himself.” 

Fabiola shrouded her face with her hands, and then looking 
up earnestly into Syra’s face, said to her — 

“ I am sure that, after having so clearly described to me 
the deep sense of responsibility, under which you must 
habitually speak as well as act, you have a real meaning in 
this awful saying, though I understand you not.” 

“ As surely as every word of mine is heard, as every thought 
of mine is seen, it is a truth which I have spoken." 

u I have not strength to carry the subject further at 
present ; my mind has need of rest.” 


I 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


89 


CHAPTER XVII 

THE CHRISTIAN COMMUNITY 

After this conversation Fabiola retired, and during the rest 
of the day her mind was alternately agitated and calm. When 
she looked steadily on the grand view of moral life which her 
mind had grasped, she found an unusual tranquillity in its 
contemplation; she felt as if she had made discovery of a 
great phenomenon, the knowledge of which guided her into 
a new and lofty region, whence she could smile on the errors 
and follies of mankind. But when she considered the respon- 
sibility which this light imposed, the watchfulness which it 
demanded, the unseen and unrequited struggles which it re- 
quired, the desolateness, almost, of a virtue without admiration 
or even sympathy, she again shrunk from the life that was 
before her, as about to be passed without any stay or help 
from the only sources of it which she knew. Unconscious of 
the real cause, she saw that she possessed not instruments or 
means to carry out the beautiful theory. This seemed to stand 
like a brilliant lamp in the midst of a huge, bare, unfurnished 
hall, lighting up only a wilderness. What was the use of so 
much wasted splendour? 

The next morning had been fixed for one of those visits 
which used to be annually paid in the country — that to the 
now ex-Prefect of the city, Chromatius. Our reader will re- 
member, that after his conversion and resignation of office, this 
magistrate had retired to his villa in Campania, taking with 
him a number of the converts made by Sebastian, with the 
holy priest Polycarp, to complete their instruction. Of these 
circumstances, of course, Fabiola had never been informed ; 
but she heard all sorts of curious reports about Chromatius’s 
villa. It was said that he had a number of visitors never 
before seen at his house; that he gave no entertainments; 
that he had freed all his country slaves, but that many of them 
had preferred remaining with him ; that if numerous, the whole 
establishment seemed very happy, though no boisterous sports 
or frolicsome meetings seemed to be indulged in. All this stimu- 
lated Fabiola’ s curiosity, in addition to her wish to discharge 
a pleasing duty of courtesy to a most kind friend of hers from 
childhood; and she longed to see with her own eyes what 
appeared to her to be a very Platonic, or, as we should say, 
Utopian experiment. 


90 


fabiola; or, 


In a light country carriage, with good horses, Fabiola started 
early, and dashed gaily along the level road across the “happy 
Campania.” An autumnal shower had laid the dust, and 
studded with glistening gems the garlands of vine which bor- 
dered the way, festooned, instead of hedges, from tree to tree. 
It was not long before she reached the gentle acclivity, for hill 
it could scarce be called, covered with box, arbutus, and laurels, 
relieved by tall tapering cypresses, amidst which shone the 
white walls of the large villa on the summit. A change, she 
perceived, had taken place, which at first she could not exactly 
define ; but when she had passed through the gate, the number 
of empty pedestals and niches reminded her that the villa had 
entirely lost one of its most characteristic ornaments, — the 
number of beautiful statues which stood gracefully against the 
clipped evergreen hedges, and gave it the name, now become 
quite an empty one, of Ad Statuas . l 

Chromatius, whom she had last seen limping with gout, now 
a hale old man, courteously received her, and inquired kindly 
after her father, asking if the report were true that he was going 
shortly to Asia. At this Fabiola seemed grieved and morti- 
fied ; for he had not mentioned his intention to her. Chroma- 
tius hoped it might be a false alarm, and asked her to take a 
stroll about the grounds. She found them kept with the same 
care as ever, full of beautiful plants ; but still much missed the 
old statues. At last they reached a grotto with a fountain, in 
which formerly nymphs and sea-deities disported, but which 
now presented a black unbroken surface. She could contain 
herself no longer, and, turning to Chromatius, she said — 

“ Why, what on earth have you been doing, Chromatius, to 
send away all your statues, and destroy the peculiar feature of 
your handsome villa ? What induced you to do this ? ” 

“My dear young lady,” answered the good-humoured old 
gentleman, “do not be so angry. Of what use were those 
figures to any one ? ” 

“ If you thought so,” replied she, “ others might not. But 
tell me, what have you done with them all ? ” 

“ Why, to tell you the truth, I have had them brought under 
the hammer.” 

“ What ! and never let me know anything about it? You know 
there were several pieces I would most gladly have purchased.” 

Chromatius laughed outright, and said, with that familiar 
tone, which acquaintance with Fabiola from a child authorised 
him always to assume with her — “ Dear me ! how your young 
1 “ The Villa of Statues,” or “ at the Statues.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 9 1 

imagination runs away, far too fast for my poor old tongue to 
keep pace with; I meant not the auctioneer’s hammer, but 
the sledge-hammer. The gods and goddesses have been all 
smashed, pulverised ! If you happen to want a stray leg, or a 
hand minus a few fingers, perhaps I may pick up such a thing 
for you. But I cannot promise you a face with a nose, or a 
skull without a fracture.” 

Fabiola was utterly amazed, as she exclaimed, “What an utter 
barbarian you have become, my wise old judge ! What shadow 
of reason can you give to justify so outrageous a proceeding ? ” 

“ Why, you see, as I have grown older I have grown wiser ! 
and I have come to the conclusion that Mr. Jupiter and Mrs. 
Juno are no more gods than you or I ; so I summarily got rid 
of them.” 

“Yes, that may be very well; and I, though neither old nor 
wise, have been long of the same opinion. But why not retain 
them as mere works of art ? ” 

“ Because they had been set up here, not in that capacity, 
but as divinities. They were here as impostors, under false 
pretences ; and as you would turn out of your house for an in- 
truder, any bust or image found among those of your ancestors, 
but belonging to quite another family, so did I these preten- 
ders to a higher connection with me, when I found it false. 
Neither could I run a risk of their being bought for the con- 
tinuance of the same imposture.” 

“And pray, my most righteous old friend, is it not an impos- 
ture to continue calling your villa Ad Statuas, after not a single 
statue is left standing in it ? ” 

“Certainly,” replied Chromatius, amused at her sharpness, 
“ and you will see that I have planted palm-trees all about ; 
and, as soon as they show their heads above the evergreens, 
the villa will take the title of Ad Palmas 1 instead. 

“That will be a pretty name,” said Fabiola, who little thought 
of the higher sense of appropriateness which it would contain. 
She, of course, was not aware that the villa was now a training- 
school, in which many were being prepared, as wrestlers or 
gladiators used to be, in separate institutions, for the great 
combat of faith, martyrdom to death. They who had entered 
in, and they who would go out, might equally say they were on 
their way to pluck the conqueror’s palm, to be borne by them 
before God’s judgment-seat, in token of their victory over the 
world. Many were the palm-branches shortly to be gathered 
in that early Christian retreat. 

1 “At” or “ to the palms.” 


92 FABIOLA ; OR, 

But we must here give the history of the demolition of 
Chromatius’s statues, which forms a peculiar episode in the 
“Acts of St. Sebastian.” 

When Nicostratus informed him, as Prefect of Rome, of the 
release of his prisoners, and of the recovery of Tranquillinus 
from gout by baptism, Chromatius, after making every inquiry 
into the truth of the fact, sent for Sebastian, and proposed to 
become a Christian, as a means of obtaining a cure of the same 
complaint. This of course could not be ; and another course was 
proposed, which would give him new and personal evidence of 
Christianity, without risking an insincere baptism. Chromatius 
was celebrated for the immense number of idolatrous images 
which he possessed; and was assured by Sebastian, that, if 
he would have them all broken in pieces, he would at once 
recover. This was a hard condition ; but he consented. His 
son Tiburtius, however, was furious, and protested that if the 
promised result did not follow, he would have Sebastian and 
Polycarp thrown into a blazing furnace : not perhaps so diffi- 
cult a matter for the Prefect’s son. 

In one day, two hundred pagan statues were broken in 
pieces, including, of course, those in the villa, as well as those 
in the house at Rome. The images indeed were broken ; but 
Chromatius was not cured. Sebastian was sent for, and sharply 
rebuked. But he was calm and inflexible. “ I am sure,” he 
said, “ that all have not been destroyed. Something has been 
withheld from demolition.” He proved right. Some small 
objects had been treated as works of art rather than religious 
things, and, like Achan’s coveted spoil , 1 concealed. They 
were brought forth and broken up ; and Chromatius instantly 
recovered. Not only was he converted, but his son Tiburtius 
became also one of the most fervent of Christians ; and, dying 
in glorious martyrdom, gave his name to a catacomb. He had 
begged to stay in Rome, to encourage and assist his fellow- 
believers, in the coming persecution, which his connection 
with the palace, his great courage and activity, would enable 
him to do. He had become, naturally, the great friend and 
frequent companion of Sebastian and Pancratius. 

After this little digression, we resume the conversation be- 
tween Chromatius and Fabiola, who continued her last sentence, 
by adding: “But do you know, Chromatius — let us sit down 
in this lovely spot, where I remember there was a beautiful 
Bacchus — that all sorts of strange reports are going round the 
country about your doings here ? ” 

1 Jos. vii. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


93 


“ Dear me ! What are they? Do tell me.” 

“ W T hy, that you have a quantity of people living with you, 
whom nobody knows ; that you see no company, go out no- 
where, and lead quite a philosophical sort of life, forming a 
most Platonic republic.” 

“ Highly flattered ! ” interrupted Chromatius, with a smile 
and bow. 

“But that is not all,” continued Fabiola. “They say you 
keep most unfashionable hours, have no amusements, and live 
most abstemiously ; in fact, almost starve yourselves.” 

“ But I hope they do us the justice to add, that we pay our 
way?” observed Chromatius. “They don’t say,- do they, that 
we have a long score run up at the baker’s or grocer’s ? ” 

“ Oh, no ! ” replied Fabiola, laughing. 

“ How kind of them !” rejoined the good-humoured old judge. 
“They — the whole public, I mean — seem to take a wonderful 
interest in our concerns. But is it not strange, my dear young 
lady, that so long as my villa was on the free-and-easy system, 
with as much loose talk, deep drinking, occasional sallies of 
youthful mirth, and troublesome freaks in the neighbourhood, 
as others, — I beg your pardon for alluding to such things ; but, 
in fact, so long as I and my friends were neither temperate nor 
irreproachable, nobody gave himself the least trouble about us? 
But let a few people retire to live in quiet, be frugal, industrious, 
entirely removed from public affairs, and never even talk about 
politics or society, and at once there springs up a vulgar curiosity 
to know all about them, and a mean pruritus in third-rate states- 
men to meddle with them ; and there must needs fly about flocks 
of false reports and foul suspicions about their motives and 
manner of living. Is not this a phenomenon ? ” 

“ It is, indeed ; but how do you account for it?” 

“ I can only do so by that faculty of little minds, which makes 
them always jealous of any aims higher than their own ; so that, 
almost unconsciously, they depreciate whatever they feel to be 
better than they dare aspire to.” 

“ But what is really your object and your mode of life here, 
my good friend ? ” 

“ We spend our time in the cultivation of our higher faculties. 
We rise frightfully early — I hardly dare tell you how early ; we 
then devote some hours to religious worship ; after which we 
occupy ourselves in a variety of ways : some read, some write, 
some labour in the gardens ; and I assure you no hired workmen 
ever toiled harder and better than these spontaneous agricul- 
turists. We meet at different times, and sing beautiful songs to- 


94 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

gether, all breathing virtue and purity, and read most improving 
books, and receive oral instruction from eloquent teachers. Our 
meals are indeed very temperate ; we live entirely on vegetables ; 
but I have already found out that laughing is quite compatible 
with lentils, and that good cheer does not necessarily mean 
good fare.” 

“Why, you are turned complete Pythagoreans. I thought 
that was quite out of date. But it must be a most economical 
system,” remarked Fabiola, with a knowing look. 

“ Ha ! you cunning thing ! ” answered the judge ; “ so you 
really think that this may be a saving plan after all ? But it 
won’t be, for .we have taken a most desperate resolution.” 

“ And what on earth is that ? ” asked the young lady. 

“Nothing less than this. We are determined that there 
shall not be such a thing as a poor person within our reach ; 
this winter we will endeavour to clothe all the naked, and feed 
the hungry, and attend to all the sick about. All our economy 
will go for this.” 

“ It is indeed a very generous, though very new, idea in our 
times ; and no doubt you will be well laughed at for your pains, 
and abused on all sides. They will even say worse of you than 
diey do now, if it were possible ; but it is not.” 

“ How so ? ” 

“ Do not be offended if I tell you ; but already they have gone 
so far as to hint that possibly you are Christians. But this, I 
assure you, I have everywhere indignantly contradicted.” 

Chromatius smiled, and said, “ Why an indignant contradic- 
tion, my dear child ? ” 

“Because, to be sure, I know you and Tiburtius, and Nico- 
stratus, and that dear dumb Zoe, too well to admit, for a moment, 
that you had adopted the compound of stupidity and knavery 
called by that name.” 

“ Let me ask you one question. Have you taken the trouble 
of reading any Christian writings, by which you might know 
what is really held and done by that despised body ? ” 

“Oh, not I indeed; I would not waste my time over them; 
I could not have patience to learn anything about them. I 
scorn them too much, as enemies of all intellectual progress, 
as doubtful citizens, as credulous to the last degree, and as 
sanctioning every abominable crime, ever to give myself a 
chance of a nearer acquaintance with them.” 

“Well, dear Fabiola, I thought just the same about them 
once, but I have much altered my opinion of late.” 

“This is indeed strange, since, as Prefect of the city, you 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 95 

must have had to punish many of these wretched people for 
their constant transgression of the laws.” 

A cloud came over the cheerful countenance of the old man, 
and a tear stood in his eye. He thought of St. Paul, who had 
once persecuted the Church of God. Fabiola saw the change, 
and was distressed. In the most affectionate manner she said 
to him, “ I have said something very thoughtless, I fear, or 
stirred up recollections of what must be painful to your kind 
heart. Forgive me, dear Chromatius, and let us talk of some- 
thing else. One purpose of my visit to you was to ask you if 
you knew of any one going immediately to Rome. I have 
heard from several quarters of my father’s projected journey, 
and I am anxious to write to him , 1 lest he repeat what he did 
before — go without taking leave of me, to spare me pain.” 

“Yes,” replied Chromatius, “there is a young man starting 
early to-morrow morning. Come into the library and write 
your letter; the bearer is probably there.” 

They returned to the house, and entered an apartment on 
the ground-floor, full of book-chests. At a table in the middle 
of the room a young man was seated, transcribing a large 
volume, which, on seeing a stranger enter, he closed and put 
aside. 

“Torquatus,” said Chromatius, addressing him, “this lady 
desires to send a letter to her father in Rome.” 

“ It will always give me great pleasure,” replied the young 
man, “to serve the noble Fabiola or her illustrious father.” 

“What, do you know them?” asked the judge, rather sur- 
prised. 

“I had the honour, when very young, as my father had 
had before me, to be employed by the noble Fabius in Asia. 
Ill-health compelled me to leave his service.” 

Several sheets of fine vellum, cut to a size, evidently for 
transcription of some book, lay on the table. One of these 
the good old man placed before the lady, with ink and a reed, 
and she wrote a few affectionate lines to her father. She 
doubled the paper, tied a thread round it, attached some wax 
to this, and impressed her seal, which she drew from an em- 
broidered bag, upon the wax. Anxious, some time, to reward 
the messenger, when she could better know how, she took 
another piece of the vellum, and made on it a memorandum 
of his name and residence, and carefully put this into her 
bosom. After partaking of some slight refreshment, she 

1 There was no post in those days, and persons wishing to send letters 
had to despatch an express, *r find some opportunity. 


96 FABIOLA ; OR, 

mounted her car, and bade Chromatius an affectionate fare- 
well. There was something touchingly paternal in his look, 
as though he felt he should never see her again. So she 
thought ; but it was a very different feeling which softened his 
heart. Should she always remain thus? Must he leave her 
to perish in obstinate ignorance? Were that generous heart 
and that noble intellect to grovel on in the slime of bitter 
paganism, when every feeling and every thought in them 
seemed formed of strong yet finest fibres, across which truth 
might weave the richest web ? It could not be ; and yet a 
thousand motives restrained him from an avowal which he 
felt would, at present, only repulse her fatally from any nearer 
approach to the faith. “ Farewell, my child,” he exclaimed, 
“ may you be blessed a hundredfold, in ways which as yet you 
know not.” He turned away his face as he dropped her hand, 
and hastily withdrew. 

Fabiola, too, was moved by the mystery, as well as the 
tenderness, of his words, but was startled, before reaching the 
gate, to find her chariot stopped by Torquatus. She was at 
that moment painfully struck by the contrast between the easy 
and rather familiar, though respectful, manner of the youth, 
and the mild gravity, mixed with cheerfulness, of the old ex- 
Prefect. 

“ Pardon this interruption, madam,” he said, “ but are you 
anxious to have this letter quickly delivered ? ” 

“Certainly, I am most anxious that it should reach my 
father as speedily as possible.” 

“ Then I fear I shall hardly be able to serve you. I can 
only afford to travel on foot, or by chance and cheap convey- 
ance, and I shall be some days upon the road.” 

Fabiola, hesitating, said, “ Would it be taking too great a 
liberty, if I should offer to defray the expenses of a more rapid 
journey?” 

“ By no means,” answered Torquatus, rather eagerly, “ if I 
can thereby better serve your noble house.” 

Fabiola handed him a purse abundantly supplied, not only 
for his journey, but for an ample recompense. He received it 
with smiling readiness, and disappeared by a side alley. There 
was something in his manner which made a disagreeable im- 
pression ; she could not think he was fit company for her dear 
old friend. If Chromatius had witnessed the transaction, he 
would have seen a likeness to Judas in that eager clutching o\ 
the purse. Fabiola, however, was not sorry to have discharged, 
by a sum of money, once for all, any obligation she might have 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


97 

contracted by making him her messenger. She therefore drew 
out her memorandum to destroy it as useless, when she per- 
ceived that the other side of the vellum was written on ; as the 
transcriber of the book, which she saw put by, had just com- 
menced its continuation on that sheet. Only a few sentences, 
however, had been written, and she proceeded to read them. 
Then for the first time she perused the following words from a 
book unknown to her : 

“ I say to you, love your enemies ; do good to them that 
hate you, and pray for them that persecute and calumniate 
you : that you may be the children of your Father who is in 
heaven, who maketh His sun to rise on the good and the bad, 
and raineth upon the just and the unjust.” 1 

We may imagine the perplexity of an Indian peasant who 
has picked up in a torrent’s bed a white pellucid pebble, rough 
and dull outside, but where chipped, emitting sparks of light ; 
unable to decide whether he have become possessed of a 
splendid diamond or of a worthless stone, a thing to be placed 
on a royal crown, or trodden under a beggar’s feet. Shall he 
put an end to his embarrassment by at once flinging it away, 
or shall he take it to a lapidary, ask its value, and perhaps be 
laughed at to his face ? Such were the alternating feelings of 
Fabiola on her way home. “ Whose can these sentences be ? 
No Greek or Roman philosopher’s. They are either very false 
or very true, either sublime morality or base degradation. 
Does any one practise this doctrine, or is it a splendid para- 
dox ? I will trouble myself no more on the subject ; or rather 
I will ask Syra about it; it sounds very like one of her beau- 
tiful but impracticable theories. No ; it is better not. She 
overpowers me by her sublime views, so impossible for me, 
though they seem easy to her. My mind wants rest. The 
shortest way is to get rid of the cause of my perplexity, and 
forget such harassing words. So here it goes to the winds, 
or to puzzle some one else, who may find it on the roadside. 
Ho ! Phormio, stop the chariot, and pick up that piece of 
parchment which I have dropped.” 

The outrider obeyed, though he had thought the sheet deli- 
berately flung out. It was replaced in Fabiola’s bosom : it 
was like a seal upon her heart ; for that heart was calm and 
silent till she reached home. 

1 Matt. v. 44. 


G 


9 8 


fabiola; or, 


CHAPTER XVIII 

TEMPTATION 

Very early next morning a mule and guide came to the door 
of Chromatius’s villa. On it was packed a moderate pair of 
saddle-bags, the whole known property of Torquatus. Many 
friends were up to see him off, and receive from him the kiss 
of peace ere he departed. May it not prove like that of 
Gethsemani ! Some whispered a kind, soft word in his ear, 
exhorting him to be faithful to the graces he had received ; and 
he earnestly, and probably sincerely, promised that he would. 
Others, knowing his poverty, put a little present into his hand, 
and entreated him to avoid his old haunts and acquaintances. 
Polycarp, however, the director of the community, called him 
aside ; and with fervent words, and flowing tears, conjured him 
to correct the irregularities, slight, perhaps, but threatening, 
which had appeared in his conduct, repress the levity which 
had manifested itself in his bearing, and cultivate more all Chris- 
tian virtues. Torquatus, also with tears, promised obedience, 
knelt down, kissed the good priest’s hand, and obtained his 
blessing ; then received from him letters of recommendation 
for his journey, and a small sum for its moderate expenses. 

At length all was ready ; the last farewell was spoken, the 
last good wish expressed; and Torquatus, mounted on his 
mule, with his guide at its bridle, proceeded slowly along the 
straight avenue which led to the gate. Long after every one 
else had re-entered the house, Chromatius was standing at the 
door, looking wistfully, with a moist eye, after him. It was 
just such a look as the prodigal’s father kept fixed on his 
departing son. 

As the villa was not on the high road, this modest quad- 
rupedal conveyance had been hired to take h’m across the 
country to Fundi (now Fondi), as the nearest point where he 
could reach it. There he was to find what means he could 
for prosecuting his journey. Fabiola’s purse, however, had set 
him very much at ease on that score. 

The road by which he travelled was varied in its beauties. 
Sometimes it wound along the banks of the Liris, gay with 
villas and cottages. Then it plunged into a miniature ravine, 
in the skirts of the Apennines, walled in by rocks, matted with 
myrtle, aloes, and the wild vine amidst which white goats shone 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 99 

like spots of snow ; while beside the path gurgled and wriggled 
on a tiny brook, that seemed to have worked itself into the 
bright conceit that it was a mountain torrent ; so great was the 
bustle and noise with which it pushed on, and pretended to 
foam, and appeared to congratulate itself loudly on having 
achieved a waterfall by leaping down two stones at a time, and 
plunging into an abyss concealed by a wide acanthus-leaf. 
Then the road emerged, to enjoy a wide prospect of the vast 
garden of Campania, with the blue bay of Cajeta, in the back- 
ground, speckled by the white sails of its craft, that looked at 
that distance like flocks of bright-plumed waterfowl, basking 
and fluttering on a lake. 

What were the traveller’s thoughts amidst these shifting 
scenes of a new act in his life’s drama ? did they amuse him ? 
did they delight him ? did they elevate him, or did they depress? 
His eye scarcely noted them. It had run on far beyond them, 
to the shady porticoes and noisy streets of the capital. The 
dusty garden and the artificial fountain, the marble bath and 
the painted vault, were more beautiful in his eyes than fresh 
autumn vineyards, pure streams, purple ocean, and azure sky. 
He did not, of course, for a moment turn his thoughts towards 
its foul deeds and impious practices, its luxury, its debauchery, 
its profaneness, its dishonesties, its calumnies, its treacheries, 
its uncleannesses. Oh, no ! what would he, a Christian, have 
again to do with these? Sometimes, as his mind became 
abstracted, it saw, in a dark nook of a hall in the Thermae, a 
table, round which moody but eager gamesters were casting 
their knuckle-bone dice ; and he felt a quivering creep over 
him of an excitement long suppressed ; but a pair of mild eyes, 
like Polycarp’s, loomed on him from behind the table, and 
aroused him. Then he caught himself, in fancy, seated at a 
maple board, with a ruby gem of Falernian wine, set in the 
rim of a golden goblet, and discourse, ungirded by inebriety, 
going round with the cup ; when the reproving countenance 
of Chromatius would seem placed opposite, repelling with a 
scowl the approach of either. 

He was, in fact, returning only to the innocent enjoyments 
of the imperial city, to its walks, its music, its paintings, its 
magnificence, its beauty. He forgot that all these were but the 
accessories to a living and panting mass of human beings, whose 
passions they enkindled, whose evil desires they inflamed, whose 
ambition they fanned, whose resolutions they melted, and 
whose minds they enervated. Poor youth ! he thought he 
could walk through that fire, and not be scorched! Poor 


ioo fabiola; or, 

moth ! he imagined he could fly through that flame, and have 
his wings unscathed ! 

It was in one of his abstracted moods that he 'journeyed 
through a narrow overhung defile, when suddenly he found him- 
self at its opening, with an inlet of the sea before him, and in it 
one solitary and motionless skiff. The sight at once brought to 
his memory a story of his childhood, true or false, it mattered • 
not ; but he almost fancied its scene was before him. 

Once upon a time there was a bold young fisherman living- 
on the coast of southern Italy. One night, stormy and dark, 
he found that his father and brothers would not venture out in 
their tight and strong smack; so he determined, in spite of 
every remonstrance, to go alone in the little cockle-shell at- 
tached to it. It blew a gale, but he rode it out in his tiny 
buoyant bark, till the sun rose, warm and bright, upon a placid, 
glassy sea. Overcome by fatigue and heat, he fell asleep ; but, 
after some time, was awakened by a loud shouting at a distance. 
He looked round, and saw the family-boat, the crew of which 
were crying aloud, and waving their hands to invite him back; 
but they made no effort to reach him. What could they want? 
what could they mean? He seized his oars, and began to pull 
lustily towards them ; but he was soon amazed to find that the 
fishing-boat, towards which he had turned the prow of his skiff, 
appeared upon his quarter; and soon, though he righted his 
craft, it was on the opposite side. Evidently he had been 
making a circle; but the end came within its beginning, in 
a spiral curve, and now he was commencing another and a 
narrower one. A horrible suspicion flashed upon his mind : 
he threw off his tunic, and pulled like a madman at his oars. 
But though he broke the circle a bit here and a bit there, still 
round he went, and every time nearer to the centre, in which 
he could see a downward funnel of hissing and foaming water. 
Then, in despair, he threw down his oars, and standing, he 
flung up his arms frantically ; and a sea-bird, screaming near, 
heard him cry out as loud as itself, “Charybdis ! ” 1 And now 
the circle his boat went spinning round was only a few times 
longer than itself; and he cast himself flat down, and shut 
his ears and eyes with his hands, and held his breath, till he 
felt the waters gurgling above him, and he was whirled down 
into the abyss. 

“I wonder,” Torquatus said to himself, ‘-did any one ever 
perish in this way ? or is it a mere allegory ? — if so, of what ? 
Can a person be drawn on gradually in this manner to spiritual 
1 A whirlpool between Italy and Sicily. 



Interior of the Temole of Jupiter, 











THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


IOI 


destruction ? Are my present thoughts, by any chance, an outer 
circle, which has caught me, and ” 

“ Fundi ! ” exclaimed the muleteer, pointing to a town before 
them ; and presently the mule was sliding along the broad flags 
of its pavement. 

Torquatus looked over his letters, and drew one out for the 
town. He was taken to a little inn of the poorest class by his 
guide, who was paid handsomely, and retired swearing and 
grumbling at the niggardliness of the traveller. He then in- 
quired the way to the house of Cassianus, the schoolmaster, 
found it, and delivered his letter. He received as kind a wel- 
come as if he had arrived at home, joined his host in a frugal 
meal, during which he learned the master’s history. 

A native of Fundi, he had started the school in Rome, with 
which we became acquainted at an early period of our history, 
and had proved eminently successful. But finding a persecu- 
tion imminent, and hisChristianity discovered, hehad disposed 
of his school, and retired to his small native town, where he 
was promised, after the vacation, the children of the principal 
inhabitants. In a fellow-Christian he saw nothing but a brother, 
and as such he talked freely with him of his past adventures and 
his future prospects. A strange idea dashed through the mind 
of Torquatus, that some day that information might be turned 
into money. 

It was still early when Torquatus took his leave, and, pre- 
tending to have some business in the town, he would not allow 
his host to accompany him. He bought himself some more 
respectable apparel, went to the best inn, and ordered a couple 
of horses, with a postillion to accompany him ; for, to fulfil 
Fabiola’s commission, it was necessary to ride forward quick, 
change his horses at each relay, and travel through the night. 
He did so, till he reached Bovillae, on the skirts of the Alban 
hills. Here he rested, changed his travelling suit, and rode on 
gaily between the lines of tombs, which brought him to the gate 
of that city within whose walls there was more of good and 
more of evil contained than in any province of the empire. 


102 


fabiola; or, 


CHAPTER XIX 

THE FALL 

Torquatus, now elegantly attired, proceeded at once to the 
house of Fabius, delivered his letter, answered all inquiries, and 
accepted, without much pressing, an invitation to supper that 
evening. He then went to seek a respectable lodging, suited 
to the present state of his purse ; and easily found one. 

Fabius, we have said, did not accompany his daughter into 
the country, and rarely visited her there. The fact was, that 
he had no love for green fields or running brooks ; his tastes 
were for the gossip and free society of Rome. During the 
year, his daughter’s presence was a restraint on his liberty; 
but when she was gone, with her establishment, into Campania, 
his house presented scenes and entertained persons, that he 
would not have presumed to bring in contact with her. Men 
of profligate life surrounded his table ; and deep drinking till 
late hours, with gambling and loose conversation, generally 
followed his sumptuous entertainments. 

Having invited Torquatus to sup with him, he went forth in 
search of guests to meet him. He soon picked up a batch of 
sycophants, who were loitering about his known haunts, in 
readiness for invitations. But as he was sauntering home from 
the baths of Titus, he saw two men in a small grove round a 
temple earnestly conversing together. After a moment’s look, 
he advanced towards them ; but waited, at a small distance, 
for a pause in the dialogue, which was something to this effect. 

“ There is no doubt, then, about the news ? ” 

“None at all. It is quite certain that the people have risen 
at Nicomedia and burnt down the church, as they call it, of 
the Christians, close to, and in sight of, the palace. My father 
heard it from the emperor’s secretary himself this morning.” 

“Whatever possessed the fools to go and build a temple in 
one of the most conspicuous places of the metropolis? They 
must have known that, sooner or later, the religious spirit of 
the nation would rise against them and destroy the eyesore, 
as every exhibition of a foreign religion must be to an empire.” 

“To be sure, as my father says, these Christians, if they had 
any wit in them, would hide their heads, and slink into corners, 
when they are so condescendingly tolerated for a time by the 
most humane princes. But as they do not choose to do so, 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS I03 

but will build temples in public instead of skulking in by-lanes 
as they used to do, I for one am not sorry. One may gain 
some notoriety, and profit too, by hunting these odious people 
down, and destroying them if possible.” 

“ Well, be it so ; but to come to the purpose. It is under- 
stood between us, that when we can discover who are Chris- 
tians among the rich, and not too powerful at first, there shall 
be a fair division. We will aid one another. You propose 
bold and rough means : I will keep my counsel as to mine. 
But each shall reap all the profit from those whom he dis- 
covers; and his right proportion from those who are shared 
between us. Is it not so ? ” 

“ Exactly.” 

Fabius now stepped forward with a hearty “ How are you, 
Fulvius ? I have not seen you for an age ; come and sup with 
me to-day, I have friends engaged; and your friend too, — 
Corvinus, I believe ” (the gentleman alluded to made an un- 
couth bow), “ will accompany you, I hope.” 

“ Thank you,” replied Fulvius; “but I fear I have an en- 
gagement already.” 

“Nonsense, man,” said the good-natured knight; “there is 
nobody left in the city with whom you could sup, except myself. 
But has my house the plague, that you have never ventured into 
it, since you dined there with Sebastian, and quarrelled with 
him ? Or did you get struck by some magical charm, which 
has driven you away ? ” 

Fulvius turned pale, and drew away Fabius to one side, 
while he said, “To tell the truth, something very like it.” 

“ I hope,” answered Fabius, somewhat startled, “ that the 
black witch has been playing no tricks with you ; I wish heartily 
she were out of my house. But come,” he continued in good 
humour, “ I really thought you were struck by a better charm 
that evening. I have my eyes open ; I saw how your heart 
was fixed on my little cousin Agnes.” 

Fulvius stared at him with some amazement; and after a 
pause replied, “And if it was so, I saw that your daughter 
made up her mind that no good should ever come out of it.” 

“ Say you so ? Then that explains your constant refusal to 
come to me again. But Fabiola is a philosopher, and under- 
stands nothing of such matters. I wish, indeed, she would 
give up her books, and think of settling herself in life, instead 
of preventing others. But I can give you better news than that ; 
Agnes is as much attached to you as you can be to her.” 

“Is it possible ? How can you happen to know it?” 


104 


FABIOLA ; OR 


“ Why, then, to tell you what I should have told you long 
since, if you had not fought so shy of me, she confided it to 
me that very day.” 

“To you?” 

“Yes, to me; those jewels of yours quite won her heart. 
She told me as much. I knew she could only mean you. 
Indeed, I am sure she meant you.” 

Fulvius understood these words of the rich gems which he 
displayed; while the knight spoke of the jewels which he 
imagined Agnes had received. She had proved, Fulvius was 
thinking, an easy prize, in spite of her demureness ; and here 
lay fortune and rank open before him, if he could only manage 
his game ; when Fabius thus broke in upon his dream, “ Come 
now, you have only to press your suit boldly ; and I tell you, 
you will win it, whatever Fabiola may think. But you have 
nothing to fear from her now. She and all her servants are 
absent ; her part of the house is closed, and we enter by the 
back-door to the more enjoyable part of the establishment.” 

“I will wait on you without fail,” replied Fulvius. “And 
Corvinus with you,” added Fabius, as he turned away. 

We will not describe the banquet further than to say, that 
wines of rare excellence flowed so plentifully, that almost all 
the guests got, more or less, heated and excited. Fulvius, 
however, for one, kept himself cool. 

The news from the East came into discussion. The destruc- 
tion of the church at Nicomedia had been followed by incendiary 
fires in the imperial palace. Little doubt could exist that the 
Emperor Galerius was their author ; but he charged them on 
the Christians ; and thus goaded on the reluctant mind of 
Dioclesian to become their fiercest persecutor. Every one began 
to see that, before many months were over, the imperial edict 
to commence the work of destruction would reach Rome, and 
find in Maximian a ready executor. 

The guests were generally inclined to gore the stricken deer ; 
for generosity, in favour of those whom popular clamour hunts 
down, requires an amount of courage too heroic to be common. 
Even the most liberal found reasons for Christians being ex- 
cepted from all kind consideration. One could not bear their 
mysteriousness, another was vexed at their supposed progress ; 
this man thought them opposed to the real glory of the empire, 
that considered them a foreign element, that ought to be elimi- 
nated from it. One thought their doctrine detestable, another 
their practice infamous. During all this debate, if it could be 
so called, where both sides came to the same conclusion, Fulvius, 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 105 

after having glanced from one to the other of the guests, had 
fixed his evil eye upon Torquatus. 

The youth was silent ; but his countenance, by turns, was 
pale and flushed. Wine had given him a rash courage, which 
some strong principle restrained Now he clenched his hand, 
and pressed it to his breast ; now he bit his lip. At one time 
he was crumbling the bread between his fingers, at another he 
drank off, unconsciously, a cup of wine. 

“ These Christians hate us, and would destroy us all if they 
could,” said one. Torquatus leaned forward, opened his lips, 
but remained silent. 

“ Destroy us, indeed ! Did they not burn Rome, under 
Nero ; and have they not just set fire to the palace in Asia, 
over the emperor’s head?” asked a second. Torquatus rose 
upon his couch, stretched forth his hand, as if about to reply, 
but drew it back. 

“But what is infinitely worse is, their maintaining such 
anti-social ddctrines, conniving at such frightful excesses, and 
degrading themselves to the disgusting worship of an ass’s 
head,” proceeded a third. Torquatus now fairly writhed ; and 
rising, had lifted his arm, when Fulvius, with a cool calculation 
of time and words, added in bitter sarcasm : “ Ay, and massacre 
a child, and devour his flesh and blood, at every assembly.” 1 

The arm descended on the table, with a blow that made 
every goblet and beaker dance and ring, as in a choked voice 
Torquatus exclaimed, “It is a lie ! a cursed lie ! ” 

“ How can you know that I ” asked Fulvius, with his blandest 
tone and look. 

“ Because,” answered the other, with great excitement, “ I 
am myself a Christian, and ready to die for my faith ! ” 

If the beautiful alabaster statue, with a bronze head, in the 
niche beside the table, had fallen forward, and been smashed 
on the marble pavement, it could not have caused a more 
fearful sensation than this sudden announcement. All were 
startled for a moment. Next, a long blank pause ensued, 
after which each began to show his feelings in his features. 
Fabius looked exceedingly foolish, as if conscious that he had 
brought his guests into bad company. Calpurnius puffed him- 
self out, evidently thinking himself ill-used by having a guest 
brought in who might absurdly be supposed to know more 
about Christians than himself. A young man opened his 
mouth as he stared at Torquatus, and a testy old gentleman 
was evidently hesitating whether he should not knock down 
1 The heathen notion of the Blessed Eucharist. 


io6 


fabiola; or, 


somebody or other, no matter whom. Corvinus looked at the 
poor Christian with the sort of grin of delight, half-idiotic, 
half-savage, with which a countryman might gaze upon the 
vermin that he finds in his trap in a morning. Here was a 
man ready to hand, to put on the rack or the gridiron when- 
ever he pleased. But the look of Fulvius was worth them all. 
If ever any microscopic observer has had the opportunity of 
witnessing the expression of the spider’s features, when, after a 
long fast, it sees a fly, plump with others’ blood, approach its 
net, and keenly watches every stroke of its wing, and studies 
how it can best throw only the first thread round it, sure that 
then all that gorges it shall be its own — that, we fancy, would 
be the best image of his looks, as certainly it is of his feelings. 
To get hold of a Christian ready to turn traitor, had long been 
his desire and study. Here, he was sure, was one, if he could 
only manage him. How did he know this? Because he 
knew sufficient of Christians to be convinced that no genuine 
one would have allowed himself either to drink to excess, or 
to boast of his readiness to court martyrdom. 

The company broke up ; everybody slunk away from the 
discovered Christian as from one pest-stricken. He felt alone 
and depressed, when Fulvius, who had whispered a word to 
Fabius and to Corvinus, went up to him, and taking him by 
the hand, said courteously, “I fear I spoke inconsiderately, 
in drawing out from you a declaration which may prove 
dangerous.” 

“ I fear nothing,” replied Torquatus, again excited. “ I 
will stand to my colours to the last.” 

“Hush, hush!” broke in Fulvius, “the slaves may betray 
you. Come with me to another chamber, where we can talk 
quietly together.” 

So saying, he led him into an elegant room, where Fabius 
had ordered goblets and flagons of the richest Falernian wine 
to be brought for such as, according to Roman fashion, liked 
to enjoy a commissatio or drinking-bout ; but only Corvinus, 
engaged by Fulvius, followed. 

On a beautifully inlaid table were dice. Fulvius, after plying 
Torquatus with more liquor, negligently took them up, and 
threw them playfully down, talking in the meantime on indif- 
ferent subjects. “ Dear me ! ” he kept exclaiming, “ what 
throws ! It is well I am not playing with any one, or I should 
have been ruined. You try, Torquatus.” 

Gambling, as we learnt before, had been the ruin of Tor- 
quatus ; for a transaction arising out of it he was in prison, 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


107 

when Sebastian converted him. As he took the dice into his 
hand, with no intention, as he thought, of playing, Fulvius 
watched him as a lynx might its prey. Torquatus’s eye flashed 
keenly, his lips quivered, his hand trembled. Fulvius at once 
recognised in all this, coupled with the poising of his hand, 
the knowing cast of the wrist, and the sharp eye to the value 
of the throw, the violence of a first temptation to resume a 
renounced vice. 

“I fear you are not a better hand than I am at this stupid 
occupation,” said he indifferently ; “ but I dare say Corvinus 
here will give you a chance, if you will stake something very 
low.” 

“ It must be very low indeed — merely for recreation ; for I 
have renounced gambling. Once, indeed — but no matter.” 

“Come on,” said Corvinus, whom Fulvius had pressed to 
his work by a look. 

They began to throw for the most trifling stakes, and Tor- 
quatus generally won. Fulvius made him drink still from time 
to time, and he became very talkative. 

“ Corvinus, Corvinus,” he said at length, as if recollecting 
himself, “ was not that the name that Cassianus mentioned ? ” 

“ Who ? ” asked the other, surprised. 

“Yes, it was,” continued Torquatus to himself — “the bully, 
the big brute. Were you the person,” he asked, looking up to 
Corvinus, “who struck that nice Christian boy, Pancratius?” 

Corvinus was on the point of bursting into a rage, but 
Fulvius checked him by a gesture, and said, with timely inter- 
ference, “ That Cassianus whom you mentioned is an eminent 
schoolmaster ; pray, where does he live ? ” 

This he knew his companion wished to ascertain, and thus 
he quieted him. Torquatus answered — 

“He lives, let me see — no, no; I won’t turn traitor. No; 
I am ready to be burnt, or tortured, or die for my faith ; but 
I won’t betray any one — that I won’t.” 

“ Let me take your place, Corvinus,” saMTulvius, who saw 
Torquatus’s interest in the game deepening. He put forth 
sufficient skill to make his antagonist more careful and more 
intent. He threw down a somewhat larger stake. Torquatus, 
after a moment’s pause of deliberation, matched it. He won 
it. Fulvius seemed vexed. Torquatus threw back both sums. 
Fulvius seemed to hesitate, but put down an equivalent, and 
lost again. The play was now silent ; each won and lost ; but 
Fulvius had steadily the advantage, and he was the more 
collected of the two. 


108 fabiola; or, 

Once Torquatus looked up and started. He thought he 
saw the good Polycarp behind his adversary’s chair. He 
rubbed his eyes, and saw it was only Corvinus staring at him. 
All his skill was now put forth. Conscience had retreated; 
faith was wavering; grace had already departed. For the 
demon of covetousness, of rapine, of dishonesty, of reckless- 
ness, had come back, and brought with him seven spirits worse 
than himself, to that cleansed but ill-guarded soul ; and as they 
entered in, all that was holy, all that was good, departed. 

At length, worked up by repeated losses and draughts of 
wine into a frenzy, after he had drawn frequently upon the 
heavy purse which Fabiola had given him, he threw the purse 
itself upon the table. Fulvius coolly opened it, emptied it, 
counted the money, and placed opposite an equal heap of gold. 
Each prepared himself for a final throw. The fatal bones fell ; 
each glanced silently upon their spots. Fulvius drew the 
money towards himself. Torquatus fell upon the table, his 
head buried and hidden within his arms. Fulvius motioned 
Corvinus out of the room. 

Torquatus beat the ground with his foot ; then moaned, next 
gnashed his teeth and growled ; then put his fingers in his hair, 
and began to pull and tear it. A voice whispered in his ear, 
“Are you a Christian?” Which of the seven spirits was it? 
surely the worst. 

“It is hopeless,” continued the voice; “you have disgraced 
your religion, and you have betrayed it too.” 

“ No, no,” groaned the despairing wretch. 

“Yes; in your drunkenness you have told us all: quite 
enough to make i.t impossible for you ever to return to those 
you have betrayed.” 

“ Begone, begone,” exclaimed piteously the tortured sinner. 
“ They will forgive me still. God ” 

“Silence; utter not His name: you are degraded, perjured, 
hopelessly lost. You are a beggar ; to-morrow you must beg 
your bread. You are an outcast, a ruined prodigal and gamester. 
Who will look at you ? will your Christian friends ? And never- 
theless you are a Christian ; you will be torn to pieces by some 
cruel death for it ; yet you will not be worshipped by them as 
one of their martyrs. You are a hypocrite, Torquatus, and 
nothing more.” 

“Who is it that is tormenting me?” he exclaimed, and 
looked up. Fulvius was standing with folded arms at his side. 
“ And if all this be true, what is it to you ? What have you 
to say more to me?” he continued. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


109 


“ Much more than you think. You have betrayed yourself 
into my power completely. I am master of your money ” — 
(and he showed him Fabiola’s purse) — “ of your character, of 
your peace, of your life. I have only to let your fellow-Chris- 
tians know what you have done, what you have said, what you 
have been to-night, and you dare not face them. I have only 
to let that * bully — that big brute/ as you called him, but who 
is son of the Prefect of the city, loose upon you (and no one 
else can now restrain him after such provocation), and to- 
morrow you will be standing before his father’s tribunal to die 
for that religion which you have betrayed and disgraced. Are 
you ready now , any longer to reel and stagger as a drunken 
gambler, to represent your Christianity before the judgment- 
seat in the Forum ? ” 

The fallen man had not courage to follow the prodigal in 
repentance, as he had done in sin. Hope was dead in him ; for 
he had relapsed into his capital sin, and scarcely felt remorse. 
He remained silent, till Fulvius aroused him by asking, “Well, 
have you made your choice ; either to go at once to the Chris- 
tians with to-night on your head, or to-morrow to the court ? 
Which do you choose ? ” 

Torquatus raised his eyes to him, with a stolid look, and 
faintly answered, “Neither.” 

“ Come, then, what will you do ? ” asked Fulvius, mastering 
him with one of his falcon glances. 

“What you like,” said Torquatus, “only neither of those 
things.” 

Fulvius sat down beside him, and said, in a soft and soothing 
voice, “Now, Torquatus, listen to me; do as I tell you, and 
all is mended. You shall have house, and food, and apparel, 
ay, and money to play with, if you will only do my bidding.” 

“ And what is that ? ” 

“ Rise to-morrow as usual ; put on your Christian face ; go 
freely among your friends ; act as if nothing had happened ; 
but answer all my questions, tell me everything.” 

Torquatus groaned, “ A traitor at last ! ” 

“ Call it what you will ; that or death ! Ay, death by inches. 
I hear Corvinus pacing impatiently up and down the court. 
Quick ! which is it to be ? ” 

“ Not death ! Oh, no ! anything but that ! ” 

Fulvius went out, and found his friend fuming with rage and 
wine ; he had hard work to pacify him. Corvinus had almost 
forgotten Cassianus in fresher resentments, but all his former 
hatred had been rekindled, and he burnt for revenge. Fulvius 


I IO 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


promised to find out where he lived, and used this means to 
secure the suspension of any violent and immediate measures. 

Having sent Corvinus sulky and fretting home, he returned 
to Torquatus, whom he wished to accompany, that he might 
ascertain his lodgings. As soon as he had left the room, his 
victim had arisen from his chair, and endeavoured, by walking 
up and down, to steady his senses and regain self-possession. 
But it was in vain ; his head was swimming from his inebriety, 
and his subsequent excitement. The apartment seemed to 
turn round and round, and float up and down ; he was sick 
too, and his heart was beating almost audibly. Shame, re- 
morse, self-contempt, hatred of his destroyers and of himself, 
the desolateness of the outcast, and the black despair of the 
reprobate, rolled like dark billows through his soul, each coming 
in turn uppermost. Unable to sustain himself longer on his 
feet, he threw himself on his face upon a silken couch, and 
buried his burning brow in his icy hands, and groaned. And 
still all whirled round and round him, and a constant moaning 
sounded in his ears. 

Fulvius found him in this state, and touched his shoulder to 
rouse him. Torquatus shuddered, and was convulsed ; then 
exclaimed, “ Can this be Charybdis ? ” 



PART SECOND.— CONFLICT 


CHAPTER I 

The scenes through which we have hitherto led our reader 
have been laid in one of those slippery truces, rather than 
peace, which often intervened between persecution and perse- 
cution. Already rumours of war have crossed our path, and 
its note of preparation has been distinctly heard. The roar of 
the lions near the Amphitheatre, which startled but dismayed 
not Sebastian, the reports from the East, the hints of Fulvius, 
and the threats of Corvinus, have brought us the same news, 
that before long the horrors of persecution will re-appear, and 
Christian blood will have to flow, in a fuller and nobler stream 
than had hitherto watered the Paradise of the New Law. The 
Church, ever calmly provident, cannot neglect the many signs 
of a threatened combat, nor the preparations necessary for 
meeting it. From the moment she earnestly begins to arm 
herself, we date the second period of our narrative. It is the 
commencement of conflict. 

It was towards the end of October that a young man, not 
unknown to us, closely muffled up in his cloak, for it was dark 

1 “ Diogenes, the excavator, deposited in peace, eight days before the 
first of October.” — From St. Sebastian’s. Boldetti, i. 15, p. 60. 

hi 



I 12 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


and rather chill, might be seen threading his way through the 
narrow alleys of the district called the Suburra — a region the 
extent and exact position of which is still under dispute, but 
which lay in the immediate vicinity of the Forum. As vice is, 
unfortunately, too often linked with poverty, the two found a 
common asylum here. Pancratius did not seem much at home 
in this part of the city, and made several wrong turns, till at 
length he found the street he was in search of. Still, without 
numbers on the doors, the house he wanted was an unsolved 
problem, although not quite insoluble. He looked for the 
neatest dwelling in the street, and being particularly struck 
with the cleanliness and good order of one beyond the rest, he 
boldly knocked at its door. It was opened by an old man, 
whose name has already appeared in our pages, Diogenes. 
He was tall and broad-shouldered, as if accustomed to bear 
burdens, which, however, had given him a stoop in his gait. 
His hair was a perfect silver, and hung down at the sides of a 
large massive head ; his features were strongly marked in deep 
melancholy lines, and though the expression of his counte- 
nance was calm, it was solemnly sad. He looked like one who 
had lived much among the dead, and was happiest in their 
company. His two sons, Majus and Severus, fine athletic 
youths, were with him. The first was busy carving, or scratch- 
ing rather, a rude epitaph on an old slab of marble, the reverse 
of which still bore traces of a heathen sepulchral inscription, 
rudely effaced by its new possessor. Pancratius looked over 
the work in hand and smiled ; there was hardly a word rightly 
spelt, or a part of speech correct ; indeed, here it is — 

DE BIANOBA 

POLLECLA QVE ORDEV BENDET DE BIANOBA . 1 

The other son was making a rough design, in which could be 
distinguished Jonas devoured by the whale, and Lazarus raised 
from the dead, both most conventionally drawn with charcoal on 
a board ; a sketch evidently for a more permanent painting else- 
where. Further, it was clear that, when the knock came to the 
door, old Diogenes was busy fitting a new handle to an old pick- 
axe. These varied occupations in one family might have surprised 
a modern, but they did not at all the youthful visitor ; he well 
knew that the family belonged to the honourable and religious 
craft of the Fossores, or excavators of the Christian cemeteries. 
Indeed, Diogenes was the head and director of that confraternity. 
In conformity with the assertion of an anonymous writer, con- 
temporary with St. Jerome, some modern antiquarians have con- 

1 “ From New Street. Pollecla, who sells barley in New Street.” 
Found in the cemetery of Callistus. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


1 1 3 

sidered the fossor as forming a lesser ecclesiastical order in the 
primitive Church, like the lector , or reader. But although this 
opinion is untenable, it is extremely probable that the duties of 
this office were in the hands of persons appointed and recog- 
nised by ecclesiastical authority. The uniform system pursued 
in excavating, arranging, and filling up the numerous ceme- 
teries round Rome, a system, too, so complete from the begin- 
ning, as not to leave positive signs of improvement or change 
as time went on, gives us reason to conclude, that these won- 
derful and venerable works were carried on under one direction, 
and probably by some body associated for that purpose. It 
was not a cemetery or necropolis company which made a specu- 
lation of burying the dead, but rather a pious and recognised 
confraternity which was associated for the purpose. 

A series of interesting inscriptions, found in the cemetery of 
St. Agnes, proves that this occupation was continued in parti- 
cular families ; grandfather, father, and sons, having carried it 
on in the same place . 1 We can thus easily understand the 
great skill and uniformity of practice observable in the cata- 
combs. But the fossores had evidently a higher office, or even 
jurisdiction, in that underground world. Though the Church 
provided space for the burial of all her children, it was natural 
that some should make compensation for their place of sepul- 
ture, if chosen in a favourite spot, such as the vicinity of a 
martyr’s tomb. These sextons had the management of such 
transactions, which are often recorded in the ancient cemeteries. 
The following inscription is preserved in the Capitol : — 

EMPTV LOCVM AB ARTEMISIVM VISOMVM HOC EST 
ET PRAETIVM DATVM FOSSORI HILARO IDEST 
FOL NOOD PRAESENTIA SEVERI FOSS ET LAVRENTI. 

• That is — 

“ This is the grave for two bodies, bought by Artemisius ; and the price 
was given to the Fossor Hilarus,— that is, purses . . ? In the presence of 
Severus the Fossor and Laurentius.” 

Possibly the last-named was the witness on the purchaser’s 
side, and Severus on the seller’s. However this may be, we 
trust we have laid before our readers all that is known about 
the profession, as such, of Diogenes and his sons. 

We left Pancratius amused at Majus’s rude attempts in 
glyptic art ; his next step was to address him. 

“ Do you always execute these inscriptions yourself?” 

“ Oh, no,” answered the artist, looking up and smiling, “ I 
do them for poor people, who cannot afford to pay a better 

1 Given by F. Marchi in his Architecture of Subterranean Christian 
Rome , 1844, a work on which we will freely draw. 

2 The number, unfortunately, is not intelligible, being in cipher. 

H 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


I 14 


hand. This was a good woman who kept a small shop in 
the Vianova , and you may suppose did not become rich, 
especially as she was very honest. And yet a curious thought 
struck me as I was carving her epitaph.” 

“ Let me hear it, Majus.” . 

“ It was, that perhaps some thousand years hence or more, 
Christians might read with reverence my scratches on the wall, 
and hear of poor old Pollecla and her barley-stall with interest, 
while the inscription of not a single emperor, who persecuted 
the Church, would be read or even known.” 

“ Well, I can hardly imagine that the superb mausoleums of 
sovereigns will fall to utter decay, and yet the memory of a 
market-wife descend to distant ages. But what is your reason 
for thinking thus ? ” 

“ Simply because I would sooner commit to the keeping of pos- 
terity the memory of the pious poor than that of the wicked rich. 
And my rude record may possibly be read when triumphal arches 
have been demolished. It’s dreadfully written though, is it not?” 

“Never mind that ; its simplicity is worth much fine writing. 
What is that slab leaning against the wall ? ” 

“Ah, that is a beautiful inscription brought us to put up; 
you will see the writer and engraver were different people. It 
is to go to the cemetery at the Lady Agnes’s villa, on the 
Nomentan way. I believe it is in memory of a most sweet 
child, whose death is deeply felt by his virtuous parents.” 
Pancratius took a light to it, and read as follows : — 


AIONYCIOCNHTIIOC 

AKM<oeeNeAAaei 

,T£U£TATCuNA 

n^NJUNHmee 

jAefOMHUtoNeNIAl 

WlAlCYuu;mFW*!t 

i^;T(>TkYYATOCKA.irmAN 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS I I 5 

“ The innocent boy Dionysius lieth here among the saints. Remember 
us in your holy prayers, the writer and the engraver.” 

“ Dear, happy child ! ” continued Pancratius, when he had 
perused the inscription : “ add me, the reader, to the writer 
and carver of thine epitaph, in thy holy prayers.” 

“ Amen,” answered the pious family. 

But Pancratius, attracted by a certain husky sound in Dio- 
genes’s voice, turned round, and saw the old man vigorously 
trying to cut off the end of a little wedge which he had driven 
into the top of the handle of his pick-axe, to keep it fast in the 
iron ; but every moment baffled by some defect in his vision, 
which he removed by drawing the back of his brawny hand 
across his eyes. “ What is the matter, my good old friend ? ” 
said the youth kindly. “Why does this epitaph of young 
Dionysius particularly affect you ? ” 

“ It does not of itself ; but it reminds me of so much that is 
past, and suggests so much that may be about to come, that I 
feel almost faint to think of either.” 

“What are your painful thoughts, Diogenes?” 

“ Why, do you see, it is all simple enough to take into one’s 
arms a good child like Dionysius, wrapped in his cerecloth, 
fragrant with spices, and lay him in his grave. His parents 
may weep, but his passage from sorrow to joy was easy and 
sweet. It is a very different thing, and requires a heart as 
hardened as mine by practice” (another stroke of the hand 
across the eyes) “ to gather up hastily the torn flesh and broken 
limbs of such another youth, to wrap them hurriedly in their 
winding-sheet, then fold them into another sheet full of lime in- 
stead of balsams, and shove them precipitately into their tomb . 1 
How differently one would wish to treat a martyr’s body ! ” 

“ True, Diogenes; but a brave officer prefers the plain soldier’s 
grave, on the field of battle, to the carved sarcophagus on the 
Via Appia. But are such scenes as you describe common, in 
times of persecution ? ” 

“ By no means uncommon, my good young master. I am 
sure a pious youth like you must have visited, on his anniver- 
sary, the tomb of Restitutus in the cemetery of Hermes.” 

“ Indeed I have, and often have I been almost jealous of his 
early martyrdom. Did you bury him ? ” 

1 In the cemetery of St. Agnes, pieces of lime have been found in tombs 
forming exact moulds of different parts of the body, with the impression of 
a finer linen inside, and a coarser outside. As to spices and balsams, Ter- 
tullian observes that “ the Arabs and Sabasans well know that the Christians 
annually consume more for their dead than the heathen world did for its gods. ’ 


I I 6 FABIOLA ; OR, 

“Yes; and his parents had a beautiful tomb made, the 
arcosolium of his crypt . 1 My father and I made it of six slabs 
of marble, hastily collected, and I engraved the inscription now 
beside it. I think I carved better than Majus there,” added 
the old man, now quite cheerful. 

“That is not saying much for yourself, father,” rejoined his 
son, no less smiling ; “ but here is the copy of the inscription 
which you wrote,” he added, drawing out a parchment from a 
number of sheets. 

“ I remember it perfectly,” said Pancratius, glancing over it, 
and reading it as follows, correcting the errors in orthography, 
but not those in grammar, as he read : — 


AELIO FABIO RESTVTO 
FILIO PIISSIMO PARI N 
TES FECERVNT QVIVI 
XIT ANNI.S XVIII MENS 
VII INIRENE. 


“To iRlius Fabius Restitutus, their most pious son, his parents erected 
(this tomb). Who lived eighteen years and seven months. In peace.” 

He continued : “ What a glorious youth, to have confessed 
Christ at such an age ! ” 

“ No doubt,” replied the old man ; “but I dare say you have 
always thought that his body reposes alone in his sepulchre. 
Any one would think so from the inscription.” 

“ Certainly, I have always thought so. Is it otherwise ? ” 

“Yes, noble Pancratius, he has a comrade younger than 
himself lying in the same bed. As we were closing the tomb of 
Restitutus, the body of a boy not more than twelve or thirteen 
years old was brought to us. Oh, I shall never forget the 
sight ! He had been hung over a fire, and his head, trunk, 
and limbs nearly to the knees, w r ere burnt to the very bone ; 
and so disfigured was he, that no feature could be recognised. 
Poor little fellow, what he must have suffered ! But why should 
I pity him ? Well, we were pressed for time ; and we thought 
the youth of eighteen would not grudge room for his fellow- 
soldier of twelve, but would own him for a younger brother ; 
so we laid him at A£lius Fabius’s feet. But we had no second 
phial of blood to put outside, that a second martyr might be 


1 These terms will be explained later. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS II 7 

known to lie there ; for the fire had dried his blood up in his 
veins .” 1 

“ What a noble boy ! If the first was older, the second was 
younger than I. What say you, Diogenes, don’t you think it 
likely you may have to perform the same office for me one of 
these days ? ” 

“ Oh, no, I hope not,” said the old digger, with a return of 
his husky voice. “ Do not, I entreat you, allude to such a 
possibility. Surely my own time must come sooner. How the 
old trees are spared, indeed, and the young plants cut down ! ” 

“Come, come, my good friend, I won’t afflict you. But I 
have almost forgotten to deliver the message I came to bring. 
It is, that to-morrow at dawn, you must come to my mother’s 
house, to arrange about preparing the cemeteries for our coming 
troubles. Our holy Pope will be there, with the priests of the 
titles, the regionary deacons, the notaries, whose number has 
been filled up, and you, the head fossor , that all may act in 
concert.” 

“ I will not fail, Pancratius,” replied Diogenes. 

“And now,” added the youth, “ I have a favour to ask you.” 

“ A favour from me ? ” asked the old man, surprised. 

“Yes ; you will have to begin your work immediately, I sup- 
pose. Now, often as I have visited, for devotion, our sacred 
cemeteries, I have never studied or examined them ; and this 
I should like to do with you, who know them so well.” 

“ Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” answered Dio- 
genes, somewhat flattered by the compliment, but still more 
pleased by this love for what he so much loved. “ After I 
have received my instructions, I shall go at once to the cemetery 
of Callistus. Meet me out of the Porta Capena, half-an-hour 
before mid-day, and we will go on together.” 

“But I shall not be alone,” continued Pancratius. “Two 
youths, recently baptized, desire much to become acquainted 
with our cemeteries, which they do not yet much know ; and 
have asked me to initiate them there.” 

“ Any friends of yours will be always welcome. What are 
their names, that we may make no mistake ? ” 

1 On the 22d of April 1823, this tomb was discovered un violated. On 
being opened, the bones, white, bright, and polished as ivory were found, 
corresponding to the framework of a youth of eighteen. At his head was 
the phial of blood. With the head to his feet was the skeleton of a boy, 
of twelve or thirteen, black and charred chiefly at the head and upper parts, 
down to the middle of the thigh-bones, from which to the feet the bones 
gradually whitened. The two bodies, richly clothed, repose side by side 
under the altar of the Jesuits’ college at Loreto. 


1 1 8 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


“One is Tiburtius, the son of Chromatius, the late Prefect; 
the other is a young man named Torquatus.” 

Severus started a little, and said, “ Are you quite sure about 
him, Pancratius?” 

Diogenes rebuked him, saying, “That he comes to us in 
Pancratius’s company is security enough.” 

“I own,” interposed the youth, “that I do not know as 
much about him as about Tiburtius, who is really a gallant, 
noble fellow. Torquatus is, however, very anxious to obtain 
all information about our affairs, and seems in earnest. What 
makes you fear, Severus ? ” 

“Only a trifle, indeed. But as I was going early to the 
cemetery this morning, I turned into the Baths of Antoninus.” 1 

“ What ! ” interrupted Pancratius, laughing, “ do you frequent 
such fashionable resorts ? ” 

“ Not exactly,” replied the honest artist ; “ but you are not 
perhaps aware that Cucumio the capsarius 2 and his wife are 
Christians ? ” 

“ Is it possible ? where shall we find them next ? ” 

“ Well, so it is ; and, moreover, they are making a tomb for 
themselves in the cemetery of Callistus ; and I had to show 
them Majus’s inscription for it.” 

“ Here it is,” said the latter, exhibiting it as follows : — 

CVCVMIO ET VICTORIA 
SE VIVOS FECERVNT 
CAPSARARIVS DE ANTON INIAN AS . 3 

“ Capital ! ” exclaimed Pancratius, amused at the blunders in 
the epitaph; “but we are forgetting Torquatus.” 

“ As I entered the building, then,” said Severus, “ I was not 
a little surprised to find in one corner, at that early hour, this 
Torquatus in close conversation with the present Prefect’s son, 
Corvinus, the pretended cripple, who thrust himself into Agnes’s 
house, you remember, when some charitable unknown person 
(God bless him !) gave large alms to the poor there. Not good 
company I thought, and at such an hour, for a Christian.” 

“ True, Severus,” returned Pancratius, blushing deeply ; “but 
he is young as yet in the faith, and probably his old friends do 
not know of his change. We will hope for the best.” 

1 Better known as Caracalla’s. 

2 The person who had charge of the bathers’ clothes, from capsa , a chest. 

s “Cucumio and Victoria made (the tomb) for themselves while living. 

C apsarius of the Antonine ” (baths). Found in the cemetery of Callistus, 
first published by F. Marchi, who attributes it, erroneously, to the cemetery 
of Prsetextatus, 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 119 

The two young men offered to accompany Pancratius, who 
rose to leave, and see him safe through the poor and profligate 
neighbourhood. He accepted their courtesy with pleasure, and 
bade the old excavator a hearty good-night. 


CHAPTER II 


M. ANTONI 
VS . RESTVTV 
S. FECIT . YPO 
GEVSIBI . ET 
SVIS . FIDENTI 
BVS . IN . DOMINO 1 


It seems to us as though we had neglected one, whose character 
and thoughts opened this little history, the pious Lucina. Her 
virtues were indeed of that quiet, unobtrusive nature, which 
affords little scope for appearing on a public scene, or taking 
part in general affairs. Her house, besides being, or rather con- 
taining, a title or parochial church, was now honoured by being 
the residence of the supreme Pontiff. The approach of a violent 
persecution, in which the rulers of Christ’s spiritual kingdom 
were sure to be the first sought out, as the enemies of Caesar, 
rendered it necessary to transfer the residence of the Ruler of 
the Church, from his ordinary dwelling, to a securer asylum. 
For this purpose Lucina’s house was chosen ; and it continued 
to be so occupied, to her great delight, in that and the following 
pontificate, when the wild beasts were ordered to be transferred 
to it, that Pope Marcellus might feed them at home. This 
loathsome punishment soon caused his death. 

Lucina, admitted at forty 2 into the order of deaconesses, 
found plenty of occupation in the duties of her office. The 
charge and supervision of the women in church, the care of the 

1 “ Marcus Antonius Restitutus made this subterranean for himself and 
his family, that trust in the Lord.”' Lately found in the cemetery of SS. 
Nereus and Achilleus. It is singular that in the inscription of the martyr 
Restitutus, given in the last chapter, as in this, a syllable should be omitted 
in the name, one easily slurred in pronouncing it. 

2 Sixty was the full age, but admission was given sometimes at forty. 


120 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

sick and poor of her own sex, the making, and keeping in order 
of sacred vestments and linen for the altar, and the instruction 
of children and female converts preparing for baptism, as well 
as the attending them at that sacred rite, belonged to the dea- 
conesses, and gave sufficient occupation in addition to domestic 
offices. In the exercise of both these classes of duties, Lucina 
quietly passed her life. Its main object seemed to be attained 
Her son had offered himself to God ; and lived ready to shed 
his blood for the faith. To watch over him, and pray for him, 
were her delight, rather than an additional employment. 

Early in the morning of the appointed day, the meeting 
mentioned in our last chapter took place. It will be sufficient 
to say, that in it full instructions were given for increasing the 
collection of alms, to be employed in enlarging the cemeteries 
and burying the dead, in succouring those driven to conceal- 
ment by persecution, in nourishing prisoners, and obtaining 
access to them, and finally in ransoming or rescuing the bodies 
of martyrs. A notary was named for each region, to collect 
their acts and record interesting events. The cardinals, or 
titular priests, received instructions about the administration of 
sacraments, particularly of the Holy Eucharist, during the per- 
secution ; and to each was intrusted one cemetery or more, in 
whose subterranean church he was to perform the sacred mys- 
teries. The holy Pontiff chose for himself that of Callistus, 
which made Diogenes, its chief sexton, not a little, but inno- 
cently, proud. 

The good old excavator seemed rather more cheery than 
otherwise, under the exciting forebodings of a coming persecu- 
tion. No commanding officer of engineers could have given 
his orders more briskly or more decidedly for the defence of 
a fortified city committed to his skill to guard, than he issued 
his to the subordinate superintendents of the various ceme- 
teries round Rome, who met him by appointment at his own 
house, to learn the instructions of the superior assembly. The 
shadow of the sun-dial at the Porta Capena was pointing to 
mid-day, as he issued from it with his sons, and found already 
waiting the three young men. They walked in parties of two 
along the Appian Road; and at nearly two miles from the 
gate 1 they entered by various ways (slipping round different 
tombs that lined the road) into the same villa on the right 
hand. Here they found all the requisites for a descent into 
the subterranean cemeteries, such as candles, lanterns, and the 

1 Now St. Sebastian’s. The older Porta Capena was nearly a mile within 
the present. 



St. Lawrence displaying his treasures 









THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


I 2 I 


instruments for procuring light. Severus proposed that, as the 
guides and the strangers were in equal number, they should be 
divided into pairs ; and in the division he allotted Torquatus 
to himself. What his reason was we may easily conjecture. 

It would probably weary our readers to follow the whole 
conversation of the party. Diogenes not only answered all 
questions put to him, but, from time to time, gave intelli- 
gent little lectures on such objects as he considered peculiarly 
attractive. But we believe we shall better interest and inform 
our friends, if we digest the whole matter of these into a more 
connected narrative. And besides, they will wish to know 
something of the subsequent history of those wonderful exca- 
vations, into which we have conducted our youthful pilgrims. 

The history of the early Christian cemeteries, the catacovibs 
as they are commonly called, may be divided into three por- 
tions-: from their beginning to the period of our narrative or a 
few years later; from this term to the eighth century; then 
down to our own time, when we have reason to hope that a 
new epoch is being commenced. 

We have generally avoided using the name of catacombs, 
because it might mislead our readers into an idea that this was 
either the original or a generic name of those early Christian 
crypts. It is not so, however : Rome might be said to be sur- 
rounded by a circumvallation of cemeteries, sixty or thereabouts 
in number, each of which was generally known by the name of 
some saint or saints, whose bodies reposed there. Thus we have 
the cemeteries of SS. Nereus and Achilleus, of St. Agnes, of St. 
Pancratius, of Prsetextatus, Priscilla, Hermes, &c. Sometimes 
these cemeteries were known by the names of the places where 
they existed . 1 The cemetery of St. Sebastian, which was called 
sometimes, Ccemeterium ad Sanctam Cceciliam , 2 and by other 
names, had among them that of Ad Catacumbas . 3 The meaning 
of this word is completely unknown; though it may be attributed 
to the circumstance of the relics of SS. Peter and Paul having 
been for a time buried there, in a crypt still existing near the 
cemetery. This term became the name of that particular 
cemetery, then was generalised, till we familiarly call the whole 
system of these underground excavations-^-the catacombs. 

Their origin was, in the last century, a subject of controversy. 
Following two or three vague and equivocal passages, some 

1 As Ad Nymphas, Ad Ur sum pileatum , Inter duas lauros t Ad Sextum 
Philippi , &c. 

2 The cemetery at St. Csecilia’s tomb. 

8 Formed apparently of a Greek preposition and a Latin verb. 


122 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


learned writers pronounced the catacombs to have been origin- 
ally heathen excavations, made to extract sand, for the building 
of the city. These sand-pits were called arenaria , and so occa- 
sionally are the Christian cemeteries. But a more scientific 
and minute examination, particularly made by the accurate 
F. Marchi, has completely confuted this theory. The entrance to 
the catacombs was often, as can yet be seen, from these sand- 
pits, which are themselves underground, and no doubt were a 
convenient cover for the cemetery ; but several circumstances, 
prove that they were never used for Christian burial, nor con- 
verted into Christian cemeteries. 

The man who wishes to get the sand out of the ground will 
keep his excavation as near as may be to the surface ; will have 
it of easiest possible access, for drawing out materials ; and will 
make it as ample as is consistent with the safety of the roof, 
and the supply of what he is seeking. And all this we find in 
the arenaria still abounding round Rome. But the catacombs 
are constructed on principles exactly contrary to all these. 

The catacomb dives at once, generally by a steep flight of 
steps, below the stratum of loose and friable sand , 1 into that 
where it is indurated to the hardness of a tender, but consistent 
rock ; on the surface of which every stroke of the pick-axe is 
yet distinctly traceable. When you have reached this depth 
you are in the first story of the cemetery, for you descend again 
by stairs, to the second and third below, all constructed on the 
same principle. 

A catacomb may be divided into three parts, its passages or 
streets, its chambers or squares, and its churches. The passages 
are long, narrow galleries, cut with tolerable regularity, so that 
the roof and floor are at right angles with the sides, often so 
narrow as scarcely to allow two persons to go abreast. They 
sometimes run quite straight to a great length ; but they are 
crossed by others, and these again by others, so as to form a 
complete labyrinth, or network, of subterranean corridors. To 
be lost among them would easily be fatal. 

But these passages are not constructed, as the name would 
imply, merely to lead to something else. They are themselves 
the catacomb or cemetery. Their walls, as well as the sides of 
the staircases, are honeycombed with graves, that is, with rows 
of excavations, large and small, of sufficient length to admit a 
human body, from a child to a full-grown man, laid with its 
side to the gallery. Sometimes there are as many as fourteen, 

1 That is, the red volcanic sand called puzzolana , so much prized for 
making Roman cement. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS I 23 

sometimes as few as three or four, of these rows, one above the 
other. They are evidently so made to measure, that it is pro- 
bable the body was lying by the side of the grave, while this 
was being dug. 

When the corpse, wrapped up, as we heard from Diogenes, 
was laid in its narrow cell, the front was hermetically closed 
either by a marble slab, or more frequently by several broad 
tiles, put edgeways in a groove or mortice, cut for them in the 
rock, and cemented all round. The inscription was cut upon 
the marble, or scratched in the wet mortar. Thousands of the 
former sort have been collected, and may be seen in museums 
and churches ; many of the latter have been copied and pub- 
lished, but by far the greater number of tombs are anonymous, 
and have no record upon them. And now the reader may 
reasonably ask, through what period does the interment in the 
catacombs range, and how are its limits determined. We will 
try to content him as briefly as possible. 

There is no evidence of the Christians having ever buried 
anywhere anteriorly to the construction of catacombs. Two 
principles as old as Christianity regulate this mode of burial. 
The first is, the manner of Christ’s entombment. He was 
laid in a grave in a cavern, wrapped up in linen, embalmed 
with spices, and a stone, sealed up, closed His sepulchre. As 
St. Paul so often proposes Him for the model of our resurrec- 
tion, and speaks of our being buried with Him in baptism, it 
was natural for His disciples to wish to be buried after His 
example, so to be ready to rise with Him. 

This lying in wait for resurrection was the second thought 
that guided the formation of these cemeteries. Every expres- 
sion connected with them alluded to the rising again. The 
word to bury is unknown in Christian inscriptions. “ De- 
posited in peace,” “ the depositwi of — are the expressions 
used ; that is, the dead are but left there for a time, till called 
for again, as a pledge, or precious thing, entrusted to faithful 
but temporary keeping. The very name of cemetery suggests 
that it is only a place where many lie, as in a dormitory, 
slumbering for a while, till dawn come, and the trumpet’s 
sound awake them. Hence the grave is only called “the 
place,” or more technically, “ the small home ,” 1 of the dead 
in Christ. _ — — 

These two ideas, which are combined in the planning of 
the catacombs, were not later insertions into the Christian 
system, but must have been more vivid in its earlier times. 

1 Locus , loculus . 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


124 

They inspired abhorrence of the pagan custom of burning the 
dead; nor have we a hint that this mode was at any time 
adopted by Christians. 

But ample proof is to be found in the catacombs themselves 
of their early origin. The style of paintings yet remaining 
belongs to -a period of still flourishing art. Their symbols, 
and the symbolical taste itself, are characteristic of a very 
ancient period. For this peculiar taste declined as time 
went on. Although inscriptions with dates are rare, yet out 
of ten thousand collected by the learned and sagacious 
Cavalier De Rossi, about three hundred are found bearing 
consular dates, through every period, from the early emperors 
to the middle of the fourth century (a.d. 350). Another 
curious and interesting custom furnishes us with dates on 
tombs. At the closing of the grave, the relations or friends, 
to mark it, would press into its wet plaster and leave there 
a coin, a cameo, or engraved gem, sometimes even a shell 
or pebble, probably that they might find the sepulchre again, 
especially where no inscription was left. Many of these 
objects continue to be found, many have been long collected. 
But it is not uncommon, where the coin, or, to speak 
scientifically, the medal, has fallen from its place, to find a 
mould of it left, distinct and clear in the cement, which 
equally gives its date. This is sometimes of Domitian, or 
other early emperors. 

It may be asked, wherefore this anxiety to rediscover with 
certainty the tomb ? Besides motives of natural piety, there 
is one constantly recorded on sepulchral inscriptions. In 
England, if want of space prevented the full date of a person’s 
death being given, we should prefer chronicling the year, to 
the day of the month, when it occurred. It is more historical. 
No one cares about remembering the day on which a person 
died, without the year ; but the year, without the day, is an 
important recollection. Yet while so few ancient Christian 
inscriptions supply the year of people’s deaths, thousands give 
us the very day of it on which they died, whether in the hope- 
fulness of believers, or in the assurance of martyrs. This is 
easily explained. Of both classes annual commemoration had 
to be made, on the very day of their departure, and accurate 
knowledge of this was necessary. Therefore it alone was 
recorded. 

In a cemetery close to the one in which we have left our 
three youths, with Diogenes and his sons, 1 were lately found 
1 That of SS. Nereus and Achilleus. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


125 

inscriptions mingled together, belonging to both orders of the 
dead. One in Greek, after mentioning the “ Deposition of 
Augenda on the 13th day before the Calends, or 1st of June,” 
adds this simple address — 

ZH C AlC ENtfb KAI 
EPcuTA TTTEPHMcoN 

“ Live in the Lord, and pray for us.” 

Another fragment is as follows — 

... N. IVN— 

1 VI BAS — 

IN PACE ET PETE 
PRO NOBIS 

. . Nones of June . . . Live in peace, and pray for us.” 

This is a third — 

VICTORIA . REFRIGERER [ET] 

ISSPIRITVS I VS IN r BONO 

“ Victoria, be refreshed, and may thy spirit be in enjoyment ” (good). 


This last reminds us of a most peculiar inscription found 
scratched in the mortar beside a grave in the cemetery of 
Prsetextatus, not many yards from that of Callistus. It is 
remarkable, first, for being in Latin, written with Greek 
letters; then for containing a testimony of the Divinity of 
our Lord ; lastly, for expressing a prayer for the refreshment 
of the departed. We fill up the portions of words wanting 
from the falling out of part of the plaster. 


BEME MEREHTl 

A€ 

OYC 

XPIC 

TOYC 

ONM 

ITTO 

TCC 


SORORl BOH! 
V1U KAL NOB 


CTTI 


PIT 

aup 

TOY 


PE<|) 

f 

1TEPE 

T 

IN? 

! 


j 


“To the well-deserving sister Bon . . . The eighth day before the Calends 
of Nov. Christ God Almighty refresh thy spirit in Christ.” 

In spite of this digression on prayers inscribed over tombs, 
the reader will not, we trust, have forgotten that we were 


126 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


establishing the fact, that the Christian cemeteries of Rome 
owe their origin to the earliest ages. We have now to state 
down to what period they were used. After peace was restored 
to the Church, the devotion of Christians prompted them to 
desire burial near the martyrs and holy people of an earlier 
age. But, generally speaking, they were satisfied to lie under 
the pavement. Hence the sepulchral stones which are often 
found in the rubbish of the catacombs, and sometimes in their 
places, bearing consular dates of the fourth century, are 
thicker, larger, better carved, and in a less simple style, than 
those of an earlier period placed upon the walls. But before 
the end of that century these monuments become rarer, and 
interment in the catacombs ceased in the following at latest. 
Pope Damasus, who died in 384, reverently shrunk, as he tells 
us in his own epitaph, from intruding into the company of 
the saints. 

Restitutus, therefore, whose sepulchral tablet we gave for a 
title to our chapter, may well be considered as speaking in the 
name of the early Christians, and claiming as their own exclu- 
sive work and property the thousand miles of subterranean 
city, with their six millions of slumbering inhabitants, who trust 
in the Lord, and await His resurrection. 1 


CHAPTER III 

WHAT DIOGENES COULD NOT TELL ABOUT THE 
CATACOMBS 

Diogenes lived during the first period in the history of the 
cemeteries, though near its close. Could he have looked into 
their future fate, he would have seen, near at hand, an epoch 
that would have gladdened his heart, to be followed by one 
that would have deeply afflicted him. Although, therefore, 
the matter of this chapter have no direct bearing upon our 
narrative, it will serve essentially to connect it with the present 
topography of its scene. 

When peace and liberty were restored to the Church, these 
cemeteries became places of devotion, and of great resort. Each 

1 So F. Marchi calculates them, after diligent examination. We may 
mention here that, in the construction of these cemeteries, the sand extracted 
from one gallery was removed into another already excavated. Hence 
many are now found completely filled up. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS I 2f 

of them was associated with the name of one, or the names of 
several, of the more eminent martyrs buried in it; and, on 
their anniversaries, crowds of citizens and of pilgrims thronged 
to their tombs, where the Divine mysteries were offered up, and 
the homily delivered in their praise. Hence began to be com- 
piled the first martyrologies, or calendars of martyrs’ days which 
told the faithful whither to go. “At Rome, on the Salarian, or 
the Appian, or the Ardeatine way,” such are the indications 
almost daily read in the Roman martyrology, now swelled out 
by the additions of later ages . 1 

An ordinary reader of the book hardly knows the importance 
of these indications ; for they have served to verify several 
otherwise dubious cemeteries. Another class of valuable writers 
also comes to our aid ; but before mentioning them, we will 
glance at the changes which this devotion produced in the 
cemeteries. First, commodious entrances, with easy staircases, 
were made ; then walls were built to support the crumbling 
galleries; and, from time to time, funnel-shaped apertures in 
the vaults were opened, to admit light and air. Finally, basilicas 
or churches were erected over their entrances, generally leading 
immediately to the principal tomb, then called the confession 
of the church. The pilgrim, thus, on arriving at the holy 
city, visited each of these churches, a custom yet practised; 
descended below, and without having to grope his way about, 
went direct, by well-constructed passages, to the principal 
martyr’s shrine, and so on to others, perhaps equally objects 
of reverence and devotion. 

During this period, no tomb was allowed to be opened, no 
body to be extracted. Through apertures made into the grave, 
handkerchiefs or scarfs, called branded, were introduced, to 

1 One or two entries from the old Kalendarium Romanum will illustrate 
this ; 

tf iii. Non. Mart. Lucii in Callisti. 
vi. Id. Dec. Eutichiani in Callisti. 
xiii. Kal. Feb. Fabiani in Callisti, et Sebastiani ad Catacumbas.. 
viii. Id. Aug. Systi in Callisti.” 

We have extracted these entries of depositions in the cemetery of Callistus, 
because, while actually writing this chapter, we have received news of the 
discovery of the tombs and lapidary inscriptions of every one of these Popes, 
together with those of St. Antherus, in one chapel of the newly-ascertained 
cemetery of Callistus, with an inscription in verse by St. Damasus ; 

“Prid. Kal. Jan. Sylvestri in Priscillse. 
iv. Id. (Aug.) Laurentii in Tiburtina. 
iii. Kal. Dec. Saturnini in Thrasonis.” 

Published by Ruinart, Acta, tom. iii. 


128 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

touch the martyr’s relics ; and these were carried to distant 
countries, to be held in equal reverence. No wonder that St. 
Ambrose, St. Gaudentius, and other bishops, should have found 
it so difficult to obtain bodies, or large relics of martyrs for their 
churches. Another sort of relics consisted of what was called 
familiarly the oil of a martyr, that is, the oil, often mixed with 
balsam, which burned in a lamp beside his tomb. Often a 
round stone pillar, three feet or so in height, and scooped out 
at the top, stands beside a monument ; probably to hold the 
lamp, or serve for the distribution of its contents. St. Gregory 
the Great wrote to Queen Theodelinda, that he sent her a col- 
lection of the oils of the popes who were martyrs. The list which 
accompanied them was copied by Mabillon in the treasury of 
Monza, and republished by Ruinart . 1 It exists there yet, together 
with the very phials containing them, sealed up in metal tubes. 

This jealousy of disturbing the saints, is displayed most 
beautifully in an incident, related by St. Gregory of Tours. 
Among the martyrs most honoured in the ancient Roman 
Church were St. Chrysanthus and Daria. Their tombs be- 
came so celebrated for cures, that their fellow-Christians built 
(that is, excavated) over them a chamber, with a vault of beau- 
tiful workmanship, where crowds of worshippers assembled. 
This was discovered by the heathens, and the emperor closed 
them in, walled up the entrance, and from above, probably 
through the luminare , or ventilating-shaft, showered down earth 
and stones, and buried the congregation alive, as the two holy 
martyrs had been before them. The place was unknown at the 
peace of the Church, till discovered by Divine manifestation. 
But instead of being permitted to enter again into this hallowed 
spot, pilgrims were merely allowed to look at it, through a win- 
dow opened in the wall, so as to see, not only the tombs of the 
martyrs, but also the bodies of those who had been buried alive 
at their shrines. And as the cruel massacre had taken place 
while preparations were being made for oblation of the Holy 
Eucharist, there were still to be seen lying about the silver cruets 
in which the wine was brought for that spotless sacrifice . 2 

It is clear that pilgrims resorting to Rome would want a hand- 
book to the cemeteries, that they might know what they had to 
visit. It is likewise but natural that, on their return home, they 
may have sought to edify their less fortunate neighbours, by 

1 Acta Martyr., tom. iii. 

2 S. Greg. Turon, de Gloria Mart., lib. i. c. 28, ap. Marchi, p. 81. One 
would apply St. Damasus’s epigram on these martyrs to this occurrence, 
Carm. xxviii. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


129 

giving an account of what they had seen. Accordingly there 
exist, no less fortunately for us than for their untravelled neigh- 
bours, several records of this character. The first place, among 
these, is held by catalogues compiled in the fourth century; 
one, of the places of sepulture of Roman Pontiffs, the other of 
martyrs . 1 2 After these come three distinct guides to the cata- 
combs; the more interesting because they take different rounds, 
yet agree marvellously in their account. 

To show the value of these documents, and describe the 
changes which took place in the catacombs during the second 
period of their history, we will give a brief account of one dis- 
covery in the cemetery where we have left our little party. 
Among the rubbish near the entrance of a catacomb, the name 
of which was yet doubtful, and which had been taken for that 
of Praetextatus, was found a fragment of a slab of marble which 
had been broken across obliquely, from left to right, with the 
following letters : — 



The young Cavalier de Rossi at once declared that this was 
part of the sepulchral inscription of the holy Pope Cornelius ; 
that probably his tomb would be found below, in a distinguished 
form ; and that as all the itineraries above mentioned concurred 
in placing it in the cemetery of Callistus, this, and not the one 
at St. Sebastian’s, a few hundred yards off, must claim the honour 
of that name. He went further, and foretold that as these works 
pronounced St. Cyprian to be buried near Cornelius, there would 
be found something at the tomb which would account for that 
idea ; for it was known that his body rested in Africa. It was 
not long before every prediction was verified. The great stair- 
case discovered 3 was found to lead at once to a wider space, 
carefully secured by brick-work of the time of peace, and pro- 
vided with light and air from above. On the left was a tomb, 
cut like others in the rock, without any exterior arch over it. 
It was, however, large and ample ; and except one, very high 
above it, there were no other graves below, or over, or at the 
sides. The remaining portion of the slab was found within it ; 

1 Published by Bucherius in 1634. 

2 (Of) . . . nelius martyr. 

3 The crypt, we believe, was discovered before the stairs. 

I 


130 fabiola; or, 

the first piece was brought from the Kircherian Museum, where it 
had been deposited, and exactly fitted to it ; and both covered 
the tomb, thus — 



Below, reaching from the lower edge of this stone to the 
ground, was a marble slab covered with an inscription, of which 
only the left hand end remains, the rest being broken off and 
lost. Above the tomb was another slab let into the sand- 
stone, of which the right hand end exists, and a few more 
fragments have been recovered in the rubbish ; not enough to 
make out the lines, but sufficient to show it was an inscription 
in verse by Pope Damasus. How is this authorship traceable ? 
Very easily. Not only do we know that this holy Pope, already 
mentioned, took pleasure in putting verses, which he loved to 
write, on the tombs of martyrs , 1 2 but the number of inscriptions 
of his yet extant exhibit a particular and very elegant form of 
letters, known among antiquarians by the name of “Dama- 
sian.” The fragments of this marble bear portions of verses 
in this character. 

To proceed: on the wall, right of the tomb, and on the 
same plane, were painted two full-length figures in sacerdotal 
garments, with glories round their heads, evidently of Byzan- 
tine work of the seventh century. Down the wall, by the left 
side of each, letter below letter, were their names ; some letters 
were effaced, which we supply in italics as follow — 

SCI+ CORiVELr'PF SCS4- CIPRl^lMr.* 3 

1 Of Cornelius Martyr Bishop. 

2 These form the great bulk of his extant works in verse. 

3 “ (The picture) of St. Cornelius Pope, of St. Cyprian.” On the other 
side, on a narrow wall projecting at a right angle, are two more similar 
portraits ; but only one name can be deciphered, that of St. Sixtus, or, as 
he is there and elsewhere called, Sustus. On the paintings of the principal 
saints may still be read, scratched in the mortar, in characters of the seventh 
century, the names of visitors to the tomb. Those of two priests are thus — 

+LEO PRB IOANIMIS PiTb. 

It may be interesting to add the entry in the Roman calendar — 

“ xviii. Kal. Oct. Cypriani Africse : Romse celebratur in Callisti.” 
“ Sept. 14. (The deposition) of Cyprian in Africa ; at Rome it is kept in 
(the cemetery) of Callistus.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS T 3 I 

We here see how a foreigner, reading these two inscriptions, 
with the portraits, and knowing that the Church commemo- 
rates the two martyrs on the same day, might easily be led to 
suppose that they were here deposited together. Finally, at 
the right hand of the tomb stands a truncated column, about 
three feet high, concave at the top, as before described ; and 
as a confirmation of the use to which we said it might be put, 
St. Gregory has, in his list of oils sent to the Lombard Queen, 
“ Oleum S. Cornelii,” the oil of St. Cornelius. 

We see, then, how, during the second period, new orna- 
ments, as well as greater conveniences, were added to the 
primitively simple forms of the cemeteries. But we must not, 
on that account, imagine that we are in any danger of mistaking 
these later embellishments for the productions of the early 
ages. The difference is so immense, that we might as easily 
blunder by taking a Rubens for a -Beato Angelico, as by con- 
sidering a Byzantine figure to be a production of the two first 
centuries. 

We come now to the third period of these holy cemeteries, 
the sad one of their desolation. When the Lombards, and 
later the Saracens, began to devastate the neighbourhood of 
Rome, and the catacombs were exposed to desecration, the 
popes extracted the bodies of the most illustrious martyrs, and 
placed them in the basilicas of the city. This went on till the 
eighth or ninth century ; when we still read of repairs made 
in the cemeteries by the sovereign pontiffs. The catacombs 
ceased to be so much places of devotion ; and the churches, 
which stood over their entrances, were destroyed, or fell to 
decay. Only those remained which were fortified, and could be 
defended. Such are the extra-mural basilicas of St. Paul on 
the Ostian Way, of St. Sebastian on the Appian, St. Laurence 
on the Tiburtine, or in the Ager Veranus, St. Agnes on the 
Nomentan Road, St. Pancratius on the Aurelian, and, greatest 
of all, St. Peter’s on the Vatican. The first and last had sepa- 
rate burghs or cities round them ; and the traveller can still 
trace remains of strong walls round some of the others. 

Strange it is, however, that the young antiquarian, whom we 
have frequently named with honour, should have re-discovered 
two of the basilicas over the entrance to the cemetery of Cal- 
listus almost entire ; the one being a stable and bakehouse, 
the other a wine-store. One is, most probably, that built by 
Pope Damasus, so often mentioned. The earth washed down, 
through air-holes, the spoliation practised during ages, by per- 
sons entering from vineyards through unguarded entrances, 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


132 

the mere wasting action of time and weather, have left us but a 
wreck of the ancient catacombs. Still there is much to be 
thankful for. Enough remains to verify the records left us in 
better times, and these serve to guide us to the reconstruction 
of our ruins. The present Pontiff has done more in a few 
years for these sacred places than has been effected in cen- 
turies. The mixed commission which he has appointed have 
done wonders. With very limited means, they are going syste- 
matically to work, finishing as they advance. Nothing is taken 
from the spot where it is found ; but everything is restored, as 
far as possible, to its original state. Accurate tracings are 
made of all the paintings, and plans of every part explored. 
To secure these good results, the Pope has, from his own re- 
sources, bought vineyards and fields, especially at Tor Marancia, 
where the cemetery of SS. Nereus and Achilleus is situated ; and 
we believe also over that of Callistus. The French emperor, 
too, has sent to Rome artists, who have produced a most 
magnificent work, perhaps somewhat overdone, upon the cata- 
combs : a truly imperial undertaking. 

It is time, however, for us to rejoin our party below, and 
finish our inspection of these marvellous cities of departed 
saints, under the guidance of our friends the excavators. 


CHAPTER IV 

WHAT DIOGENES DID TELL ABOUT THE CATACOMBS 

All that we have told our readers of the first period of the 
history of subterranean Rome, as ecclesiastical antiquarians 
love to call the catacombs, has no doubt been better related 
by Diogenes to his youthful hearers, as, taper in hand, they 
have been slowly walking through a long straight gallery, 
crossed, indeed, by many others, but adhered to faithfully; 
with sundry pauses, and, of course, lectures, embodying what 
we have put together in our prosaic second chapter. 

At length Diogenes turned to the right, and Torquatus 
looked around him anxiously. 

“I wonder,” he said, “how many turns we have passed by, 
before leaving this main gallery? ” 

“A great many,” answered Severus drily. 

“ How many do you think, ten or twenty ? ” 

“ Full that, I fancy; for I never have counted them. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 33 

Torquatus had, however; but wished to make sure. He 
continued, still pausing — 

“ How do you distinguish the right turn, then ? Oh, what 
is this ? ” and he pretended to examine a small niche in the 
corner. But Severus kept too sharp a look-out, and saw that 
he was making a mark in the sand. 

“ Come, come along,” he said, “ or we shall lose sight of the 
rest, and not see which way they turn. That little niche is to 
hold a lamp ; you will find one at each angle. As to ourselves, 
we know every alley and turn here below, as you do those of 
the city above.” 

Torquatus was somewhat reassured by this account of the 
lamps — those little earthen ones, evidently made on purpose for 
the catacombs, of which so many are there found. But not con- 
tent, he kept as good count as he could of the turns, as they 
went ; and now with one excuse, and now with another, he con- 
stantly stopped, and scrutinised particular spots and corners. 
But Severus had a lynx’s eye upon him, and allowed nothing 
to escape his attention. 

At last they entered a doorway, and found themselves in a 
square chamber, richly adorned with paintings. 

“What do you call this?” asked Tiburtius. 

“ It is one of the many crypts, or cubicula} which abound 
in our cemeteries,” answered Diogenes ; “ sometimes they are 
merely family sepultures, but generally they contain the tomb 
of some martyr, on whose anniversary we meet here. See that 
tomb opposite us, which, though flush with the wall, is arched 
over. That becomes, on such an occasion, the altar whereon 
the Divine mysteries are celebrated. You are, of course, aware 
of the custom of so performing them.” 

“Perhaps my two friends,” interposed Pancratius, “so recently 
baptized, may not have heard it ; but I know it well. It is surely 
one of the glorious privileges of martyrdom, to have the Lord’s 
sacred Body and precious Blood offered upon one’s ashes, and 
to repose thus under the very feet of God . 2 But let us see well 
the paintings all over this crypt.” 

1 Chambers. 

2 “ Sic venerarier ossa libet, 

Ossibus altar et impositum ; 

Ilia Dei sita sub pedibus , 

Prospicit hsec, populosque suos 
Carmine propitiata fovet.” 

Prudentius , irepi <TT€<f>. iii. 43. 

“ With her relics gathered here, 

The altar o’er them placed revere, 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


134 

“It is on account of them that I brought you into this chamber, 
in preference to so many others in the cemetery. It is one of the 
most ancient, and contains a most complete series of pictures, 
from the remotest times down to some of my son’s doing.” 

“Well, then, Diogenes, explain them systematically to my 
friends,” said Pancratius. “ I think I know most of them, but 
not all ; and I shall be glad to hear you describe them.” 

“ I am no scholar,” replied the old man modestly, “but when 
one has lived sixty years, man and boy, among things, one gets 
to know them better than others, because one loves them more. 
All here have been fully initiated, I suppose ? ” he added, with 
a pause. 

“All,” answered Tiburtius, “though not so fully instructed as 
converts ordinarily are. Torquatus and myself have received 
the sacred gift.” 

“ Enough,” resumed the excavator. “ The ceiling is the oldest 
part of the painting, as is natural ; for that was done when the 
crypt was excavated, whereas the walls were decorated as tombs 
were hollowed out. You see the ceiling has a sort of trellis-work 
painted over it, with grapes, to represent perhaps our true Vine, 
of which we are the branches. There you see Orpheus sitting 
down, and playing sweet music, not only to his own flock, but to 
the wild beasts of the desert, which stand charmed around him. ” 

“Why, that is a heathen picture altogether,” interrupted 
Torquatus, with pettishness, and some sarcasm; “what has it 
to do with Christianity ? ” 

“It is an allegory, Torquatus,” replied Pancratius gently, 
“and a favourite one. The use of Gentile images, when in 
themselves harmless, has been permitted. You see masks, for 
instance, and other pagan ornaments in this ceiling, and they 
belong generally to a very ancient period. And so our Lord 
was represented under the symbol of Orpheus, to conceal His 
sacred representation from Gentile blasphemy and sacrilege. 
Look, now, in that arch : you have a more recent representation 
of the same subject.” 

“ I see,” said Torquatus, “a shepherd with a sheep over his 
shoulders — the Good Shepherd; that I can understand; I 
remember the parable.” 


She beneath God's feet reposes , 

Nor to us her soft eye closes, 

Nor her gracious ear.” 

The idea that the martyr lies “ beneath the feet of God ” is an allusion to 
the Real Presence in the Blessed Eucharist. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 35 

“But why is this subject such a favourite one?” asked 
Tiburtius ; “ I have observed it in other cemeteries.” 

“ If you will look over the arcosolium ,” 1 answered Severus, 
“you will see a fuller representation of the scene. But I think 
we had better first continue what we have begun, and finish 
the ceiling. You see that figure on the right ? ” 

“Yes,” replied Tiburtius ; “it is that of a man apparently 
in a chest, with a dove flying towards him. Is that meant to 
represent the Deluge ? ” 

“ It is,” said Severus, “ as the emblem of regeneration by 
water and the Holy Spirit ; and of the salvation of the world. 
Such is our beginning ; and here is our end : Jonas thrown out 
of the boat, and swallowed by the whale ; and then sitting^ in 
enjoyment under his gourd. The resurrection with our Lord, 
and eternal rest as its fruit.” 

“ How natural is this representation in such a ‘ place ! ” ob- 
served Pancratius, pointing to the other side ; “ and here we 
have another type of the same consoling doctrine.” 

“Where?” asked Torquatus languidly ; “I see nothing but 
a figure bandaged all round, and standing up, like a huge 
infant in a small temple ; and another person opposite to it.” 

“ Exactly,” said Severus ; “ that is the way we always repre- 
sent the resurrection of Lazarus. Here, look, is a touching 
expression of the hopes of our fathers in persecution: The 
three Babylonian children in the fiery furnace.” 

“Well, now, I think,” said Torquatus, “we may come to the 
arcosoliu?n , and finish this room. What are these pictures 
round it ? ” 

“ If you look at the left side, you see the multiplication of 
the loaves and fishes. The fish 2 is, you know, the symbol of 
Christ.” 

“ Why so ?” asked Torquatus, rather impatiently. Severus 
turned to Pancratius, as the better scholar, to answer. 

“ There are two opinions about its origin,” said the youth 
readily; “one finds the meaning in the word itself; its letters 
forming the beginning of words, so as to mean ‘Jesus Christ, 
Son of God, Saviour .” 3 Another puts it in the symbol itself; 
that as fish are born and live in the water, so is the Christian 

1 The arched tombs were so called. A homely illustration would, be an 
arched fireplace, walled up to the height of three feet. The paintings 
would be inside, above the wall. 

2 The word is usually given in Greek, and Christ is familiarly called the 

ichthys. 

3 This is the interpretation of St. Optatus {adv. Farm. lib. iii.) and St. 
Augustine {de C. D. lib, xviii, c. 23 ). 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


136 

born of water, and buried with Christ in it, by baptism . 1 Hence, 
as we came along, we saw the figure of a fish carved on tombs, 
or its name engraven on them. Now go on, Severus.” 

“ Then the union of the bread and the fish in one multiplica- 
tion shows us how, in the Eucharist, Christ becomes the food 
of all . 2 Opposite, is Moses striking the rock, from which all 
drank, and which is Christ, our drink as well as our food.” 3 * * * * 8 

“ Now at last,” said Torquatus, “we are come to the Good 
Shepherd.” 

“ Yes,” continued Severus, “ you see Him in the centre of 
the arcosolium in His simple tunic and leggings, with a sheep 
upon His shoulders, the recovered wanderer from the flock. 
Two more are standing at His sides, the truant ram on His 
right, the gentle ewe upon His left, the penitent in the post of 
honour. On each side, too, you see a person evidently sent 
by Him to preach. Both are leaning forward, and addressing 
sheep not of the fold. One on either side is apparently giving 
no heed to their words, but browsing quietly on, while one is 
turning up its eyes and head, looking and listening with eager 
attention. Rain is falling copiously on them ; that is the 
grace of God. It is not difficult to interpret this picture.” 

“But what makes this emblem such a particular favourite ? ” 
again pressed Tiburtius. 

“We consider this, and similar paintings, to belong chiefly 
to the time when the Novatian heresy so much plagued the 
Church,” answered Severus. 

“And pray what heresy is that?” asked Torquatus care- 
lessly ; for he thought he was losing time. 

“ It was, and indeed is, the heresy,” answered Pancratius, 
“ that teaches that there are sins which the Church has not 
power to forgive, which are too great for God to pardon.” 

Pancratius was not aware of the effect of his words ; but 
Severus, who never took off his eye from Torquatus, saw the 
blood come and go violently in his countenance. 

“ Is that a heresy ? ” asked the traitor, confused. 

1 This is Tertullian’s explanation (de Baptismo, lib. ii. c. 2). 

2 In the same cemetery is another interesting painting. On a table lie a 

loaf and a fish ; a priest is stretching his hands over them ; and opposite is 

a female figure in adoration. The priest is the same as, in a picture close 

by, is represented administering baptism. In another chamber just cleared 

out are very ancient decorations, such as masks, &c., and fishes bearing 

baskets of bread and flasks of wine on their backs as they swim. 

8 The type of the figure is that of St. Peter, as he is represented to us in 
the cemeteries. On a glass, bearing a picture of this scene, the person 
striking the rock has written over his head, PETRVS. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 37 

“ Surely a dreadful one,” replied Pancratius, “ to limit the 
mercy and forgiveness of Him who came to call not the just, 
but sinners to repentance. The Catholic Church has always 
held that a sinner, however dark the dye, however huge the 
mass of his crimes, on truly repenting, may receive forgiveness, 
through the penitential remedy left in her hands. And, there- 
fore, she has always so much loved this type of the Good 
Shepherd, ready to run into the wilderness to bring back a 
lost sheep.” 

“ But suppose,” said Torquatus, evidently moved, “ that one 
who had become a Christian, and received the sacred Gift, 
were to fall away, and plunge into vice, and — and — ” (his voice 
faltered) — “almost betray his brethren, would not the Church 
reject such a one from hope ? ” 

“ No, no,” answered the youth ; “these are the very crimes 
which the Novatians insult the Catholics for admitting to 
pardon. The Church is a mother, with her arms ever open 
to re-embrace her erring children.” 

There was a tear trembling in Torquatus’s eye; his lips 
quivered with the confession of his guilt, which ascended to 
them for a moment ; but as if a black poisonous drop rose up 
his throat with it and choked him, he changed in a moment 
to a hard obstinate look, bit his lip, and said, with an effort 
at coolness, “ It is certainly a consoling doctrine for those that 
need it.” 

Severus alone observed that a moment of grace had been 
forfeited, and that some despairing thought had quenched a 
flash of hope in that man’s heart. Diogenes and Majus, who 
had been absent, looking at a new place for opening a gallery 
near, now returned. Torquatus addressed the old master- 
digger— 

“ We have now seen the galleries and the chambers ; I 
am anxious to visit the church in which we shall have to 
assemble.” 

The unconscious excavator was going to lead the way when 
the inexorable artist interposed. 

“ I think, father, it is too late for to-day ; you know we have 
got our work to do. These young friends will excuse us, espe- 
cially as they will see the church in good time, and in better 
order also, as the holy Pontiff intends to officiate in it.” 

They assented ; and when they arrived at the point where 
they had turned off from the first straight gallery to visit the 
ornamental chamber, Diogenes stopped the party, turned a few 
steps along an opposite passage, and said— 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


138 

“ If you pursue this corridor, and turn to the right, you 
come to the church. I have merely brought you here to show 
you an ar cosolium , with a beautiful painting. You here see 
the Virgin Mother holding her Divine Infant in her arms, 
while the wise Easterns, here represented as four, though gene- 
rally we only reckon three, are adoring Him .” 1 

All admired the painting ; but poor Severus was much cha- 
grined at seeing how his good father had unwittingly supplied 
the information desired by Torquatus, and had furnished him 
with a sure clue to the desired turn, by calling his attention to the 
tomb close round it, distinguishable by so remarkable a picture. 

When their company was departed, he told all that he had 
observed to his brother, remarking, “That man will give us 
trouble yet : I strongly suspect him.” 

In a short time they had removed every mark which Tor- 
quatus had made at the turnings. But this was no security 
against his reckonings; and they determined to prepare for 
changing the road, by blocking up the present one, and turning 
off at another point. For this purpose, they had the sand of 
new excavations brought to the ends of a gallery which crossed 
the main avenue, where this was low, and left it heaped up 
there, till the faithful could be instructed of the intended 
change. 


CHAPTER V 

ABOVE GROUND 

To recover our reader from his long subterranean excursion, 
we must take him with us on another visit to the “happy 
Campania,” or, “ Campany the blest,” as an old writer might 
have called it. There we left Fabiola perplexed by some 
sentences which she had found. They came to her like a 
letter from another world ; she hardly knew of what character. 
She wished to learn more about them, but she hardly durst 
inquire. Many visitors called the next day, and for several 
days after, and she often thought of putting before some or 
other of them the mysterious sentences, but she could not 
bring herself to do it. 

1 There are several repetitions of this painting. One has been lately 
found, if we remember right, in the cemetery of Nereus and Achilleus. It 
is long anterior to the Council of Chalcedon, whence this mode of repre- 
senting our Lord is usually dated. It is given in our title-page. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


139 


A lady, whose life was like her own, philosophically correct, 
and coldly virtuous, came, and they talked together over the 
fashionable opinions of the day. She took out her vellum 
page to puzzle her ; but she shrank from submitting it to her : 
it felt profane to do so. A learned man, well read in all 
branches of science and literature, paid her a long visit, and 
spoke very charmingly on the sublimer views of the older 
schools. She was tempted to consult him about her discovery ; 
but it seemed to contain something higher than he could com- 
prehend. It was strange that, after all, when wisdom or con- 
solation was to be sought, the noble and haughty Roman lady 
should turn instinctively to her Christian slave. And so it was 
now. The first moment they were alone, after several days of 
company and visits, Fabiola produced her parchment, and 
placed it before Syra. There passed over her countenance an 
emotion not observable to her mistress ; but she was perfectly 
calm, as she looked up from reading. 

“ That writing,” said her mistress, “ I got at Chromatius’s 
villa, on the back of a note, probably by mistake. I cannot 
drive it out of my mind, which is quite perplexed by it.” 

“Why should it be so, my noble lady? Its sense seems 
plain enough.” 

“Yes; and that very plainness gives me trouble. My 
natural feelings revolt against this sentiment ; I fancy I ought 
to despise a man, who does not resent an injury, and return 
hatred for hatred. To forgive at most would be much ; but to 
do good in return for evil, seems to me an unnatural exaction 
from human nature. Now, while I feel all this, I am con- 
scious that I have been brought to esteem you, for conduct 
exactly the reverse of what I am naturally impelled to expect.” 

“Oh, do not talk of me, my dear mistress ; but look at the 
simple principle ; you honour it in others, too. Do you de- 
spise, or do you respect, Aristides, for obliging a boorish 
enemy, by writing, when asked, his own name on the shell 
that voted his banishment ? Do you, as a Roman lady, con- 
temn, or honour, the name of Coriolanus for his generous 
forbearance to your city ? ” 

*“! venerate both, most truly, Syra ; but then you know those 
were heroes, and not every-day men.” 

“And why should we not all be heroes?” asked Syra, laughing. 

“ Bless me, child ! what a world we should live in if we were. 
It is very pleasant reading about the feats of such wonderful 
people ; but one would be very sorry to see them performed 
by common men every day.” 


140 


fabiola; or, 


“Why so?” pressed the servant. 

“ Why so ? who would like to find a baby she was nursing, 
playing with, or strangling, serpents in the cradle ? I should 
be very sorry to have a gentleman, whom I invited to dinner, 
telling me coolly he had that morning killed a minotaur, or 
strangled a hydra ; or to have a friend offering to send the 
Tiber through my stables to cleanse them. Preserve us from 
a generation of heroes, say I.” And Fabiola laughed heartily 
at the conceit. In the same good humour Syra continued — 

“But suppose we had the misfortune to live in a country 
where such monsters existed, centaurs and minotaurs, hydras 
and dragons. Would it not be better that common men should 
be heroes enough to conquer them, than that we should have 
to send off to the other side of the world for a Theseus or a 
Hercules to destroy them ? In fact, in that case, a man would 
be no more a hero if he fought them than a lion-slayer is in 
my country.” 

“Quite true, Syra; but I do not see the application of your 
idea.” 

“ It is this : anger, hatred, revenge, ambition, avarice, are to 
my mind as complete monsters, as serpents or dragons ; and 
they attack common men as much as great ones. Why should 
not I try to be as able to conquer them as Aristides, or Corio- 
lanus, or Cincinnatus? Why leave it to heroes only, to do 
what we can do as well ? ” 

“ And do you really hold this as a common moral principle ? 
If so, I fear you will soar too high.” 

“ No, dear lady. You were startled when I ventured to main- 
tain that inward and unseen virtue was as necessary as the out- 
ward and visible : I fear I must surprise you still more.” 

“Go on, and do not fear to tell me all.” 

“ Well, then, the principle of that system which I profess is 
this : that we must treat, and practice, as every-day and common 
virtue, nay, as simple duty, whatever any other code, the purest 
and sublimest that may be, considers heroic, and proof of tran- 
scendent virtue.” 

“ That is indeed a sublime standard to form of moral eleva- 
tion ; but mark the difference between the two cases. The hero 
is supported by the praises of the world : his act is recorded 
and transmitted to posterity, when he checks his passions, 
and performs a sublime action. But who sees, cares for, or 
shall requite, the poor obscure wretch, who in humble secrecy 
imitates his conduct ? ” 

Syra, with solemn, reverential look and gesture, raised her 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS I41 

eyes and her right hand to heaven, and slowly said, “His 
Father, who is in heaven, who maketh His sun to rise on the 
good and the bad, and raineth on the just and the unjust.” 

Fabiola paused for a time, overawed : then said affectionately 
and respectfully : “ Again, Syra, you have conquered my philo- 
sophy. Your wisdom is consistent as it is sublime. A virtue 
heroic, even when unseen, you propose as the ordinary daily 
virtue of every one. Men must indeed become more than what 
gods have been thought to be to attempt it ; but the very idea is 
worth a whole philosophy. Can you lead me higher than this?” 

“Oh, far! — far higher still.” 

“And where at length would you leave me?” 

“ Where your heart should tell you, that it had found peace.” 


CHAPTER VI 

DELIBERATIONS 

The persecution had now been some time raging in the East 
under Dioclesian and Galerius ; and the decree for enkindling 
it throughout the West had reached Maximian. But it had 
been resolved to make this a work, not of repression, but of 
extermination, of the Christian name. It had been determined 
to spare no one ; but cutting off the chiefs of the religion first, 
to descend down to the wholesale butchery of the poorest classes. 
It was necessary for this purpose to concert measures, that the 
various engines of destruction might work in cruel harmony; 
that every possible instrument should be employed to secure 
completeness to the effort ; and also that the majesty of im- 
perial command should add its grandeur and its terror to the 
crushing blow. 

For this purpose, the emperor, though impatient to begin his 
work of blood, had yielded to the opinion of his counsellors, 
that the edict should be kept concealed, till it could be pub- 
lished simultaneously in every province and government of the 
West. The thundercloud, fraught with vengeance, would thus 
hang for a time, in painful mystery, over its intended victims, 
and then burst suddenly upon them, discharging upon their 
heads its mingled elements, and its “ fire, hail, snow, ice, and 
boisterous blast.” 

It was in the month of November, that Maximian Herculeus 
convoked the meeting in which his plans had finally to be ad- 


142 fabiola; or, 

justed. To it were summoned the leading officers of his court, 
and of the state. The principal one, the Prefect of the city, 
had brought with him his son, Corvinus, whom he had proposed 
to be captain of a body of armed pursuivants, picked out for 
their savageness and hatred of Christians ; who should hunt 
them out, or down, with unrelenting assiduity. The chief pre- 
fects or governors of Sicily, Italy, Spain, and Gaul, were 
present, to receive their orders. In addition to these, several 
learned men, philosophers, and orators, among whom was our old 
acquaintance Calpurnius, had been invited ; and many priests, 
who had come from different parts, to petition for heavier per- 
secution, were commanded to attend. 

The usual residence of the emperors, as we have seen, was 
the Palatine. There was, however, another much esteemed 
by them, which Maximian Herculeus in particular preferred. 
During the reign of Nero, the wealthy senator, Plautius Late- 
ranus, was charged with conspiracy, and of course punished with 
death. His immense property was seized by the emperor, and 
part of this was his house, described by Juvenal, and other 
writers, as of unusual size and magnificence. It was beauti- 
fully situated on the Coelian hill, and on the southern verge of 
the city ; so that from it was a view unequalled even in the 
vicinity of Rome. Stretching across the wavy campagna, here 
bestrided by colossal aqueducts, crossed by lines of roads, with 
their fringes of marble tombs, and bespangled all over with 
glittering villas, set like gems in the dark green enamel of 
laurel and cypress, the eye reached, at evening, the purple 
slope of hills on which, as on a couch, lay stretched luxuriously 
Alba and Tusculum, with “their daughters,” according to 
oriental phrase, basking brightly in the setting sun. The 
craggy range of Sabine mountains on the left, and the golden 
expanse of the sea on the right, of the beholder, closed in this 
perfect landscape. 

It would be attributing to Maximian a quality which he did 
not possess, were we to give him credit for loving a residence 
so admirably situated through any taste for the beautiful. The 
splendour of the buildings, which he had still further adorned, 
or possibly the facility of running out of the city for the chase 
of boar and wolf, was the motive of this preference. A native 
of Sirmium, in Sclavonia, a reputed barbarian therefore of the 
lowest extraction, a mere soldier of fortune, without any educa- 
tion, endowed with little more than a brute strength, which 
made his surname of Herculeus most appropriate, he had been 
raised to the purple by his brother-barbarian Diodes, known as 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


M3 

the Emperor Dioclesian. Like him, covetous to meanness, and 
spendthrift to recklessness, addicted to the same coarse vices 
and foul crimes, which a Christian pen refuses to record, with- 
out restraint of any passion, without sense of justice, or feeling 
of humanity, this monster had never ceased to oppress, perse- 
cute, and slay whoever stood in his way. To him the coming 
persecution looked like an approaching feast does to a glutton, 
who requires the excitement of a surfeit to relieve the mono- 
tony of daily excess. Gigantic in frame, with the well-known 
features of his race, with the hair on his head and face more 
yellow than red, shaggy and wild, like tufts of straw, with eyes 
restlessly rolling in a compound expression of suspicion, pro- 
fligacy, and ferocity, this almost last of Rome’s tyrants struck 
terror into the heart of any beholder, except a Christian. Is it 
wonderful that he hated the race and its name ? 

In the large basilica, or hall, then, of the Hides Lateranse , 1 
Maximian met his motley council, in which secrecy was 
ensured by penalty of death. In the semicircular apse at the 
upper end of the hall sat the emperor, on an ivory throne 
richly adorned, and before him were arranged his obsequious 
and almost trembling advisers. A chosen body of guards kept 
the entrance, and the officer in command, Sebastian, was lean- 
ing negligently against it on the inside, but carefully noted 
every word that was spoken. 

Little did the emperor think, that the hall in which he sat, 
and which he afterwards gave, with the contiguous palace, to 
Constantine, as part of the dowry of his daughter Fausta, 
would be transferred by him to the head of the religion he 
was planning to extirpate, and become, retaining its name 
of the Lateran Basilica, the cathedral of Rome, “ of all the 
churches of the city and of the world the mother and chief .” 2 
Little did he imagine, that on the spot whereon rested his 
throne, would be raised a Chair, whence commands should 
issue, to reach w r orlds unknown to Roman sway, from an im- 
mortal race of sovereigns, spiritual and temporal. 

Precedence was granted, by religious courtesy, to the priests, 
each of whom had his tale to tell. Here a river had over- 
flowed its banks, and done much mischief to the neighbouring 
plains ; there an earthquake had thrown down part of a town ; 
on the northern frontiers the barbarians threatened invasion ; 
at the south, the plague was ravaging the pious population. 
In every instance the oracles had declared that it was all 

1 The Lateran house or palace. 

2 Inscription on the front, and medals, of the Lateran Basilica. 


144 


fabiola; or, 


owing to the Christians, whose toleration irritated the gods, 
and whose evil charms brought calamity on the empire. Nay, 
some had afflicted their votaries by openly proclaiming that 
they would utter no more till the odious Nazarenes had been 
exterminated ; and the great Delphic oracle had not hesitated 
to declare, “that the Just did not allow the gods to speak.” 

Next came the philosophers and orators, each of whom 
made his own long-winded oration, during which Maximian 
gave unequivocal signs of weariness. But as the emperors in 
the East had held a similar meeting, he considered it his duty 
to sit out the annoyance. The usual calumnies were repeated, 
for the ten-thousandth time, to an applauding assembly; the 
stories of murdering and eating infants, of committing foul 
crimes, of worshipping martyrs’ bodies, of adoring an ass’s 
head, and inconsistently enough of being unbelievers, and 
serving no God. These tales were all most firmly believed, 
though probably their reciters knew perfectly well they were 
but good sound heathen lies, very useful in keeping up a 
horror of Christianity. 

But at length up rose the man who was considered to have 
most deeply studied the doctrines of the enemy, and best to 
know their dangerous tactics. He was supposed to have read 
their own books, and to be drawing up a confutation of their 
errors, which would fairly crush them. Indeed, so great was 
his weight with his own side, that when he asserted that 
Christians held any monstrous principle, had their supreme 
pontiff in person contradicted it, every one would have laughed 
at the very idea of taking his word for his own belief against 
the assertion of Calpurnius. 

He struck up a different strain, and his learning quite 
astonished his fellow-sophists. He had read the original 
books, he said, not only of the Christians themselves, but of 
their forefathers, the Jews ; who, having come into Egypt in 
the reign of Ptolemy Philadelphus, to escape from a famine in 
their own country, through the arts of their leader, Josephus, 
bought up all the corn there, and sent it home. Upon which 
Ptolemy imprisoned them, telling them that, as they had eaten 
up all the corn, they should live on the straw, by making bricks 
with it for building a great city. Then Demetrius Phalerius, 
hearing from them of a great many curious histories of their 
ancestors, shut up Moses and Aaron, their most learned men, 
in a tower, having shaved half their beards, till they should 
write in Greek all their records. These rare books Calpurnius 
had seen, and he would build his argument entirely on them. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


145 

This race made war upon every king and people that came in 
their way ; and destroyed them all. It was their principle, if 
they took a city, to put every one to the sword ; and this was 
all because they were under the government of their ambitious 
priests ; so that when a certain king, Saul, called also Paul, 
spared a poor captive monarch whose name was Agag, the 
priests ordered him to be brought out and hewed in pieces. 

“Now,” continued he, “these Christians are still under the 
domination of the same priesthood, and are quite as ready 
to-day, under their direction, to overthrow the great Roman 
empire, burn us all in the Forum, and even sacrilegiously assail 
the sacred and venerable heads of our divine emperors.” 

A thrill of horror ran through the assembly at this recital. It 
was soon hushed, as the emperor opened his mouth to speak. 

“ For my part,” he said, “ I have another and a stronger 
reason for my abhorrence of these Christians. They have 
dared to establish in the heart of the empire, and in this very 
city, a supreme religious authority, unknown here before, inde- 
pendent of the government of the State, and equally powerful 
over their minds as this. Formerly, all acknowledged the 
emperor as supreme in religious, as in civil, rule. Hence he 
bears still the title of Pontifex Maximus. But these men have 
raised up a divided power, and consequently bear but a divided 
loyalty. I hate, therefore, as a usurpation in my dominions, 
this sacerdotal sway over my subjects. For I declare, that I 
would rather hear of a new rival starting up to my throne, than 
of the election of one of these priests in Rome .” 1 This speech, 
delivered in a harsh grating voice, and with a vulgar foreign 
accent, was received with immense applause ; and plans were 
formed for the simultaneous publication of the Edict through 
the West, and for its complete and exterminating execution. 
Then turning sharp upon Tertullus, the emperor said : “ Prefect, 
you said you had some one to propose for superintending these 
arrangements, and for merciless dealings with these traitors.” 

“ He is here, sire, my son Corvinus.” And Tertullus handed 
the youthful candidate to the grim tyrant’s footstool, where he 
knelt. Maximian eyed him keenly, burst into a hideous laugh, 
and said : “ Upon my word, I think he’ll do. Why, Prefect, I 

1 These are the very words of Decius, on the election of St. Cornelius to 
the See of St. Peter : “ Cum multo patientius audiret levari adversum se 
aemulum principem, quam constitui Roir.ge Dei sacerdotem.” S. Cypr. Ep. 
lii. ad Anioniamim, p. 69, ed. Maur. Could there be a stronger proof, 
that under the heathen empire, the papal power was sensible and external, 
even to the extent of exciting imperial jealousy ? 

K 


146 FABIOLA ; OR, 

had no idea you had such an ugly son. I should think he is just 
the thing ; every quality of a thorough-paced, unconscientious 
scapegrace is stamped upon his features.” 

Then turning to Corvinus, who was scarlet with rage, terror, 
and shame, he said to him : “ Mind you, sirrah, I must have 
clean work of it ; no hacking and hewing, no blundering. I 
pay up well, if I am well served ; but I pay off well, too, if 
badly served. So now go ; and remember, that if your back 
can answer for a small fault, your head will for a greater. The 
Victors* fasces contain an axe as well as rods.” 

The emperor rose to depart, when his eye caught Fulvius, 
who had been summoned as a paid court-spy, but who kept as 
much in the background as possible. “ Ho, there, my eastern 
worthy,” he called out to him, “ draw nearer.” 

Fulvius obeyed with apparent cheerfulness, but with real re- 
luctance ; much the same as if he had been invited to go very 
near a tiger, the strength of whose chain he was not quite sure 
about. He had seen, from the beginning, that his coming to 
Rome had not been acceptable to Maximian, though he knew 
not fully the cause. It was not merely that the tyrant had 
plenty of favourites of his own to enrich, and spies to pay, 
without Dioclesian’s sending him more from Asia, though this 
had its weight; but it was more. He believed in his heart 
that Fulvius had been sent principally to act the spy upon him- 
self, and to report to Nicomedia the sayings and doings of his 
court. While, therefore, he was obliged to tolerate him, and 
employ him, he mistrusted and disliked him, which in him was 
equivalent to hating him. It was some compensation, therefore, 
to Corvinus, when he heard his more polished confederate pub- 
licly addressed, as rudely as himself, in the following terms : 

“None of your smooth, put-on looks for me, fellow. I want 
deeds, not smirks. You came here as a famous plot-hunter, a 
sort of stoat, to pull conspirators out of their nests, or suck 
their eggs for me. I have seen nothing of this so far ; and yet 
you have had plenty of money to set you up in business. 
These Christians will afford you plenty of game; so make 
yourself ready, and let us see what you can do. You know 
my ways ; you had better look sharp about you, therefore, or 
you may have to look at something very sharp before you. The 
property of the convicted will be divided between the accusers 
and the treasury : unless I see particular reasons for taking the 
whole to myself. Now you may go.” 

Most thought that these particular reasons would turn out to 
be very general. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


147 


CHAPTER VII 

DARK DEATH 

A few days after Fabiola’s return from the country, Sebastian 
considered it his duty to wait upon her, to communicate so 
much of the dialogue between Corvinus and her black slave, 
as he could without causing unnecessary suffering. We have 
already observed, that of the many noble youths whom Fabiola 
had met in her father’s house, none had excited her admira- 
tion and respect except Sebastian. So frank, so generous, so 
brave, yet so unboasting ; so mild, so kind in act and speech, 
so unselfish and so careful of others, blending so completely in 
one character nobleness and simplicity, high wisdom and prac- 
tical sense, he seemed to her the most finished type of manly 
virtue, one which would not easily suffer by time, nor weary by 
familiarity. 

When, therefore, it was announced to her that the officer Sebas- 
tian wished to speak to her alone, in one of the halls below, her 
heart beat at the unusual tidings, and conjured up a thousand 
strange fancies about the possible topics of his interview. This 
agitation was not diminished, when, after apologising for his 
seeming intrusion, he remarked with a smile, that, well know- 
ing how sufficiently she was already annoyed by the many 
candidates for her hand, he felt regret at the idea that he was 
going to add another, yet undeclared, to her list. If this am- 
biguous preface surprised, and perhaps elated her, she was soon 
depressed again, upon being told it was the vulgar and stupid 
Corvinus. For her father, even, little as he knew how to dis- 
criminate characters out of business, had seen enough of him 
at his late banquet, to characterise him to his daughter by those 
epithets. 

Sebastian, fearing rather the physical than the moral activity 
of Afra’s drugs, thought it right to inform her of the compact 
between the two dabblers in the black art, the principal efficacy 
of which, however, seemed to consist in drawing money from 
the purse of a reluctant dupe. He, of course, said nothing of 
what related to the Christians in that dialogue. He put her 
on her guard, and she promised to prevent the nightly excur- 
sions of her necromancer slave. What Afra had engaged to 
do, she did not for a moment believe it was ever her intention 
to attempt, neither did she fear arts which she utterly despised. 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


148 

Indeed, Afra’s last soliloquy seemed satisfactorily to prove 
that she was only deceiving her victim. But she certainly felt 
indignant at having been bargained about by two such vile 
characters, and having been represented as a grasping avaricious 
woman, whose price was gold. 

“ I feel,” she said at last to Sebastian, “ how very kind it is 
of you to come thus to put me on my guard ; and I admire 
the delicacy with which you have unfolded so disagreeable a 
matter, and the tenderness with which you have treated every 
one concerned.” 

“ I have only done in this instance,” replied the soldier, 
“ what I should have done for any human being — save him, if 
possible, from pain or danger.” 

“Your friends, I hope you mean,” said Fabiola, smiling; 
“ otherwise I fear your whole life would go in works of unre- 
quited benevolence.” 

“ And so let it go ; it could not be better spent.” 

“ Surely you are not in earnest, Sebastian. If you saw 
one who had ever hated you, and sought your destruction, 
threatened with a calamity which would make him harmless, 
would you stretch out your hand to save or succour him ? ” 

“ Certainly I would. While God sends His sunshine and 
His rain equally upon His enemies as upon His friends, shall 
weak man frame another rule of justice ? ” 

At these words Fabiola wondered ; they were so like those 
of her mysterious parchment, identical with the moral theories 
of her slave. 

“You have been in the East, I believe, Sebastian,” she 
asked him, rather abruptly ; “ was it there that you learnt 
these principles? For I have one near me who is yet, by her 
own choice, a servant, a woman of rare moral perceptions, who 
has propounded to me the same ideas, and she is an Asiatic.” 

“ It is not in any distant country that I learnt them, for here 
I sucked them in with my mother’s milk ; though originally 
they doubtless came from the East.” 

“ They are certainly beautiful in the abstract,” remarked 
Fabiola ; “ but death would overtake us before we could half 
carry them out, were we to make them our principles of conduct.” 

“ And how better could death find us, though not surprise us, 
than in thus doing our duty, even if not to its completion ? ” 

“ For my part,” resumed the lady, “ I am of the old Epicu- 
rean poet’s mind. This world is a banquet, from which I shall 
be ready to depart when I have had my fill — ut conviva satur 1 — 

1 “ As a sated guest/’ 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


149 


and not till then. I wish to read life’s book through, and close 
it calmly, only when I have finished its last page.” 

Sebastian shook his head, smiling, and said, “The last page 
of this world’s book comes but in the middle of the volume, 
wherever ‘ death ’ may happen to he written. But on the next 
page begins the illuminated book of a new life — without a last 
page.” 

“I understand you,” replied Fabiola good-humouredly; 
“ you are a brave soldier, and you speak as such. You must 
be always prepared for death from a thousand casualties ; we 
seldom see it approach suddenly ; it comes more mercifully 
and stealthily upon the weak. You no doubt are musing 
on a more glorious fate, on receiving in front full sheaves 
of arrows from the enemy, and falling covered with honour. 
You look to the soldier’s funeral pile, with trophies erected 
over it. To you, after death, opens its bright page the book 
of glory.” 

“No, no, gentle lady,” exclaimed Sebastian emphatically; 
“ I mean not so. I care not for glory, which can only be 
enjoyed by an anticipating fancy. I speak of vulgar death, as 
it may come to me in common with the poorest slave ; con- 
suming me by slow burning fever, wasting me by long lingering 
consumption, racking me by slowly eating ulcers ; nay, if you 
please, by the still crueller inflictions of men’s wrath. In any 
form let it come ; it comes from a hand that I love.” 

“And do you really mean that death so contemplated 
would be welcomed by you ? ” 

“ As joyful as is the epicure, when the doors of the banquet- 
ing hall are thrown wide open, and he sees beyond them the 
brilliant lamps, the glittering table, and its delicious viands, 
with its attendant ministers well girt, and crowned with roses ; 
as blithe as is the bride when the bridegroom is announced, 
coming with rich gifts, to conduct her to her new home, will 
my exulting heart be, when death, under whatever form, throws 
back the gates, iron on this side, but golden on the other, which 
lead to a new and perennial life. And I care not how grim the 
messenger may be that proclaims the approach of Him who is 
celestially beautiful.” 

“And who is He?” asked Fabiola eagerly. “Can He not 
be seen save through the fleshless ribs of death ? ” 

“No,” replied Sebastian ; “for it is He who must reward us, 
not only for our lives, but for our deaths also. Happy they 
whose inmost hearts, which He has ever read, have been kept 
pure and innocent, as well as their deeds have been virtuous ! 


150 FABIOLA ; OR, 

For them is this bright vision of Him, whose true rewards only 
then begin.” 

How very like Syra’s doctrines ! she thought. But before 
she could speak again, to ask whence they came, a slave 
entered, stood on the threshold, and respectfully said, “A 
courier, madam, is just arrived from Baiae.” 1 

“ Pardon me, Sebastian ! ” she exclaimed. “ Let him enter 
immediately.” 

The messenger came in, covered with dust and jaded, having 
left his tired horse at the gate, and offered her a sealed packet. 

Her hand trembled as she took it ; and while she was un- 
loosening its bands, she hesitatingly asked, “From my father?” 

“ About him, at least,” was the ominous reply. 

She opened the sheet, glanced over it, shrieked, and fell. 
Sebastian caught her before she reached the ground, laid her 
on a couch, and delicately left her in the hands of her hand- 
maids, who had rushed in at the cry. 

One glance had told her all. Her father was dead. 


CHAPTER VIII 

DARKER STILL 

When Sebastian came into the court, he found a little crowd 
of domestics gathered round the courier, listening to the details 
of their master’s death. 

The letter of which Torquatus was the bearer to him, had 
produced its desired effect. He called at his villa, and spent 
a few days with his daughter, on his way to Asia. He was 
more than usually affectionate; and when they parted, both 
father and daughter seemed to have a melancholy foreboding 
that they would meet no more. He soon, however, recovered 
his spirits at Baiae, where a party of good livers anxiously 
awaited him ; and where he considered himself obliged to 
stay, while his galley was being fitted up, and stored with the 
best wines and provisions which Campania afforded, for his 
voyage. He indulged, however, his luxurious tastes to excess; 
and on coming out of a bath, after a hearty supper, he was 
seized with a chill, and in four-and-twenty hours was a corpse. 
He had left his undivided wealth to his only child. In fine, 

1 A fashionable watering-place near Naples, 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS I 5 I 

the body was being embalmed when the courier started, and 
was to be brought by his galley to Ostia. 

On hearing this sad tale, Sebastian was almost sorry that he 
had spoken as he had done of death ; and left the house with 
mournful thoughts. 

Fabiola’s first plunge into the dark abyss of grief was deep 
and dismal, down into unconsciousness. Then the buoyancy of 
youth and mind bore her up again to the surface ; and her view 
of life, to the horizon, was as of a boundless ocean of black 
seething waves, on which floated ho living thing save herself. 
Her woe seemed utter and unmeasured ; and she closed her 
eyes with a shudder, and suffered herself to sink again into 
obliviousness, till once more roused to wakefulness of mind. 
Again and again she was thus tossed up and down, between 
transient death and life, while her attendants applied remedies 
to what they deemed a succession of alarming fits and convul- 
sions. At length she sat up, pale, staring, and tearless, gently 
pushing aside the hand that tried to administer restoratives 
to her. In this state she remained long ; a stupor, fixed and 
deadly, seemed to have entranced her ; the pupils were almost 
insensible to the light, and fears were whispered of her brain 
becoming oppressed. The physician, who had been called, 
uttered distinctly and forcibly into her ears the question, 
“Fabiola, do you know that your father is dead?” She 
started, fell back, and a bursting flood of tears relieved her 
heart and head. She spoke of her father, and called for him 
amidst her sobs, and said wild and incoherent, but affectionate 
things about, and to, him. Sometimes she seemed to think 
him still alive, then she remembered he was dead ; and so she 
wept and moaned, till sleep took the turn of tears, in nursing 
her shattered mind and frame. 

Euphrosyne and Syra alone watched by her. The former had, 
from time to time, put in the commonplaces of heathen con- 
solation, had reminded her, too, how kind a master, how honest 
a man, how loving a father he had been. But the Christian 
sat in silence, except to speak gentle and soothing words to her 
mistress, and served her with an active delicacy, which even 
then was not unnoticed. What could she do more, unless it 
was to pray ? What hope for else, than that a new grace was 
folded up, like a flower, in this tribulation ; that a bright 
angel was riding in the dark cloud that overshadowed her 
humbled lady ? 

As grief receded, it left some room for thought This came 
to Fabiola in a gloomy and searching form. “ What was 


152 fabiola; or, 

become of her father ? Whither was he gone ? Had he melted 
into unexistence, or had he been crushed into annihilation? 
Had his life been searched through by that unseen eye which 
sees the invisible ? Had he stood the proof of that scrutiny 
which Sebastian and Syra had described ? Impossible ! Then 
what had become of him ? ” She shuddered as she thought, 
and put away the reflection from her mind. 

Oh, for a ray from some unknown light, that would dart 
into the grave, and show her what it was ! Poetry had pre- 
tended to enlighten it, and even glorify it ; but had only, in 
truth, remained at the door, as a genius with drooping head, 
and torch reversed. Science had stepped in, and come out 
scared, with tarnished wings, and lamp extinguished in the 
foetid air ; for it had only discovered a charnel-house. And 
philosophy had barely ventured to wander round and round, 
and peep in with dread, and recoil, and then prate or babble ; 
and, shrugging its shoulders, own that the problem was yet 
unsolved, the mystery still veiled. Oh, for something, or some 
one, better than all these, to remove the dismal perplexity ! 

While these thoughts dwell like gloomy night on the heart 
of Fabiola, her slave is enjoying the vision of light, clothed in 
mortal form, translucid and radiant, rising from the grave as 
from an alembic, in which have remained the grosser qualities 
of matter, without impairing the essence of its nature. Spiri- 
tualised and free, lovely and glorious, it springs from the very 
hot-bed of corruption. And another and another, from land 
and sea ; from reeking cemetery, and from beneath consecrated 
altar ; from the tangled thicket where solitary murder has been 
committed on the just, and from fields of ancient battle done 
by Israel for God; like crystal fountains springing into the 
air, like brilliant signal-lights, darted from earth to heaven, till 
a host of millions, side by side, repeoples creation with joyous 
and undying life. And how knows she this ? Because One, 
greater and better than poet, sage, or sophist, had made the 
trial ; had descended first into the dark couch of death, had 
blessed it, as He had done the cradle, and made infancy sacred ; 
rendering also death a holy thing, and its place a sanctuary. 
He went into it in the darkest of evening, and He came forth 
from it in the brightest of morning ; He was laid there wrapped 
in spices, and He rose again robed in His own fragrant incor- 
ruption. And from that day the grave had ceased to be an 
object of dread to the Christian soul ; for it continued what He 
had made it — the furrow into which the seed of immortality 
must needs be cast. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


153 

The time was not come for speaking of these things to 
Fabiola. She mourned still, as they must mourn who have 
no hope. Day succeeded day in gloomy meditation on the 
mystery of death, till other cares mercifully roused her. The 
corpse arrived, and such a funeral followed as Rome then sel- 
dom witnessed. Processions by torchlight, in which the waxen 
effigies of ancestors were borne, and a huge funeral pile, built up 
of aromatic wood, and scented by the richest spices of Arabia, 
ended in her gathering up a few handfuls of charred bones, which 
were deposited in an alabaster urn, and placed in a niche of the 
family sepulchre, with the name inscribed of their former owner. 

Calpurnius spoke the funeral oration, in which, according to 
the fashionable ideas of the day, he contrasted the virtues of 
the hospitable and industrious citizen with the false morality 
of those men called Christians, who fasted and prayed all day, 
and were stealthily insinuating their dangerous principles into 
every noble family, and spreading disloyalty and immorality in 
every class. Fabius, he could have no doubt, if there was any 
future existence, whereon philosophers differed, was now bask- 
ing on a green bank in Elysium, and quaffing nectar. “ And 
oh ! ” concluded the old whining hypocrite, who would have 
been sorry to exchange one goblet of Falernian for an amphora 1 
of that beverage, “ oh ! that the gods would hasten the day when 
I, his humble client, may join him in his shady repose and sober 
banquets ! ” This noble sentiment gained immense applause. 

To this care succeeded another. Fabiola had to apply her 
vigorous mind to examine and close her father’s complicated 
affairs. How often was she pained at the discovery of what 
to her seemed injustice, fraud, over-reaching, and oppression 
in the transactions of one whom the world had applauded as 
the most honest and liberal of public contractors ! 

In a few weeks more, in the dark attire of a mourner, 
Fabiola went forth to visit her friends. The first of these was 
her cousin Agnes. 


CHAPTER IX 

THE FALSE BROTHER 

We must take our reader back a few steps in the history of 
Torquatus. On the morning after his fall, he found, on 
awaking, Fulvius at his bedside. It was the falconer, who, 
1 A large earthenware vessel, in which wine was kept in the cellar. 


154 fabiola; or, 

having got hold of a good hawk, was come to tame him and 
train him to strike down the dove for him, in return for a well- 
fed slavery. With all the coolness of a practised hand, he 
brought back to his memory every circumstance of the pre- 
ceding night’s debauch, his utter ruin, and only means of 
escape. With unfeeling precision he strengthened every 
thread of the last evening’s web, and added many more 
meshes to it. 

The position of Torquatus was this : if he made one step 
towards Christianity, which Fulvius assured him would be 
fruitless, he would be at once delivered to the judge and 
cruelly punished with death. If he remained faithful to his 
compact of treason, he should want for nothing. 

“ You are hot and feverish,” at last concluded Fulvius ; “ an 
early walk and fresh air will do you good.” 

The poor wretch consented ; and they had hardly reached 
the Forum, when Corvinus, as if by accident, met them. After 
mutual salutations, he said, “ I am glad to have fallen in with 
you; I should like to take you, and show you my father’s 
workshop.” 

“Workshop?” asked Torquatus, with surprise. 

“ Yes, where he keeps his tools ; it has just been beautifully 
fitted up. Here it is, and that grim old foreman, Catulus, is 
opening the doors.” 

They entered into a spacious court with a shed round it, 
filled with engines of torture of every form. Torquatus shrunk 
back. 

“ Come in, masters, don’t be afraid,” said the old execu- 
tioner. “ There is no fire put on yet, and nobody will hurt 
you, unless you happen to be a wicked Christian. It’s for 
them we have been polishing up of late.” 

“Now, Catulus,” said Corvinus, “tell this gentleman, who 
is a stranger, the use of these pretty toys you have here.” 

Catulus, with good heart, showed them round his museum 
of horrors, explaining everything with such hearty good-will, and 
no end of jokes not quite fit for record, that in his enthusiasm 
he nearly gave Torquatus practical illustrations of what he 
described, having once almost caught his ear in a pair of sharp 
pincers, and another time brought down a mallet within an 
inch of his teeth. 

The rack, a large gridiron, an iron chair with a furnace in it 
for heating it, large boilers for hot oil or scalding-water baths ; 
ladles for melting lead, and pouring it neatly into the mouth ; 
pincers, hooks and iron combs of varied shapes, for laying 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS I 5 5 

bare the ribs ; scorpions, or scourges armed with iron or leaden 
knobs ; iron collars, manacles and fetters of the most torment- 
ing make ; in fine, swords, knives, and axes in tasteful varieties, 
were all commented upon with true relish, and an anticipation 
of much enjoyment, in seeing them used on those hard-headed 
and thick-skinned Christians . 1 

Torquatus was thoroughly broken down. He was taken to 
the baths of Antoninus, where he caught the attention of old 
Cucumio, the head of the wardrobe department, or capsarius, 
and his wife Victoria, who had seen him at church. After a 
good refection, he was led to a gambling-hall in the Thermae, 
and lost, of course. Fulvius lent him money, but for every 
farthing exacted a bond. By these means, he was, in a few 
days, completely subdued. 

Their meetings were early and late ; during the day he was 
left free, lest he should lose his value, through being suspected 
by Christians. Corvinus had determined to make a tremendous 
dash at them so soon as the Edict should have come out. He 
therefore exacted from Torquatus, as his share of the compact, 
that the spy should study the principal cemetery where the 
pontiff intended to officiate. This Torquatus soon ascertained ; 
and his visit to the cemetery of Callistus was in fulfilment of 
his engagement. When that struggle between grace and sin 
took place in his soul which Severus noticed, it was the image 
of Catulus and his hundred plagues, with that of Fulvius and 
his hundred bonds, that turned the scale in favour of perdition. 
Corvinus, after receiving his report, and making from it a rough 
chart of the cemetery, determined to assail it early the very 
day after the publication of the Decree. 

Fulvius took another course. He determined to become 
acquainted, by sight, with the principal clergy and leading 
Christians of Rome. Once possessed of this knowledge, he 
was sure no disguise would conceal them from his piercing 
eyes ; and he would easily pick them up, one by one. He 
therefore insisted upon Torquatus’s taking him as his com- 
panion to the first great function that should collect many 
priests and deacons round the Pope. He overruled every 
remonstrance, dispelled every fear ; and assured Torquatus, 
that once in, by his password, he should behave perfectly like 
any Christian. Torquatus soon informed him that there would 
be an excellent opportunity at the coming ordination in that 
very month of December. 

1 These instruments of cruelty are mentioned in the Acts of the Martyrs , 
and in ecclesiastical historians. 


156 


fabiola; or, 


CHAPTER X 

THE ORDINATION IN DECEMBER 

Whoever has read the history of the early Popes, will have 
become familiar with the fact, recorded almost invariably of 
each, that he held certain ordinations in the month of December, 
wherein he created so many priests and deacons, and so many 
bishops for different places. The first two orders were con- 
ferred to supply clergy for the city ; the third was evidently to 
furnish pastors for other dioceses. In later times, the ember- 
days in December, regulated by the festival of St. Lucy, were 
those on which the Supreme Pontiff held his consistories, in 
which he named his cardinal priests and deacons, and pre- 
conised, as it is called, the bishops of all parts of the world. 
And, though this function is not now coincident with the 
periods of ordination, still it is continued essentially for the 
same purpose. 

Marcellinus, under whose pontificate our narrative is placed, 
is stated to have held two ordinations in this month, that is, of 
course, in different years. It was to one of these that we have 
alluded as about to take place. 

Where was this solemn function to be performed, was Ful- 
vius’s first inquiry. And we cannot but think that the answer 
will be interesting to the Christian antiquary. Nor can our 
acquaintance with the ancient Roman Church be complete, 
without our knowing the favoured spot, where Pontiff after 
Pontiff preached, and celebrated the divine mysteries, and held 
his councils, or those glorious ordinations, which sent forth not 
only bishops but martyrs to govern other churches, and gave 
to a St. Laurence his diaconate, or to St. Novatus or St. Timo- 
theus his priesthood. There, too, a Polycarp or Irenseus visited 
the successor of St. Peter ; and thence received their commis- 
sion the apostles who converted our King Lucius to the faith. 

The house which the Roman Pontiffs inhabited, and the 
church in which they officiated, till Constantine installed them 
in the Lateran palace and basilica, the residence and cathedral of 
the illustrious line of martyr-popes for three hundred years, can be 
no ignoble spot. And that, in tracing it out, we may not be mis- 
guided by national or personal prepossession, we will follow a 
learned living antiquarian, who, intent upon another research, 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS t 5 7 

accidentally has put together all the data requisite for our 
purpose . 1 

We have described the house of Agnes’s parents as situated 
in the Vicus Patricius , or the Patrician Street. This had 
another name, for it was also called the street of the Cornelii, 
Vicus Corneliorum , because in it lived the illustrious family of 
that name. The centurion whom St. Peter converted 2 be- 
longed to this family ; and possibly to him the apostle owed 
his introduction at Rome to the head of his house, Cornelius 
Pudens. This senator married Claudia, a noble British lady ; 
and it is singular how the unchaste poet Martial vies with the 
purest writers, when he sings the wedding-song of these two 
virtuous spouses. 

It was in their house that St. Peter lived ; and his fellow- 
apostle St. Paul enumerates them among his familiar friends 
as well : “ Eubulus and Pudens, and Linus and Claudia, and 
all the brethren salute thee.” 3 From that house, then, went 
forth the bishops, whom the Prince of the Apostles sent in 
every direction, to propagate, and die for, the faith of Christ. 
After the death of Pudens, the house became the property of 
his children, or grandchildren , 4 two sons and two daughters. 
The latter are better known, because they have found a place 
in the general calendar of the Church, and because they have 
given their names to two of the most illustrious churches of 
Rome, those of St. Praxedes and St. Pudentiana. It is the 
latter, which Alban Butler calls “ the most ancient church in 
the world ,” 5 that marks at once the Vicus Patricius, and the 
house of Pudens. 

As in every other city, so in Rome, the eucharistic sacrifice 
was offered originally in only one place, -by the bishop. And 
even after more churches were erected, and the faithful met in 
them, communion was brought to them from the one altar 
by the deacons, and distributed by the priests. It was Pope 
Evaristus, the fourth successor of St. Peter, who multiplied the 
churches of Rome with circumstances peculiarly interesting. 

This Pope, then, did two things. First, he enacted that from 
thenceforward no altars should be erected except of stone, and 
that they should be consecrated; and secondly, “he distri- 
buted the titles ; ” that is, he divided Rome into parishes, to 

1 “ Sopra l’antichissimo altare di legno, rinchiuso nell’ altare papale,” 

&c. “ On the most ancient wooden altar, enclosed in the papal altar of 

the most holy Lateran basilica.” By Monsig. D. Bartolini. Rome, 1852. 

2 Acts x. a 2 Tim. iv. 21. 

4 A second or younger Pudens is spoken of. B May the 19th. 


158 fabiola; or, 

the churches of which he gave the name of “ title.” The con- 
nection of these two acts will be apparent to any one looking 
at Genesis xxviii. ; where, after Jacob had enjoyed an angelic 
vision, while sleeping with a stone for his pillow, we are told 
that, “ trembling he said, How terrible is this place ! This is 
no other than the house of God, , and the gate of heaven. And 
Jacob arising in the morning took the stone . . . and set it up 
for a title , pouring oil on the top of itP 1 

The church or oratory, where the sacred mysteries were 
celebrated, was truly, to the Christian, the House of God ; and 
the stone altar set up in it was consecrated by the pouring of oil 
upon it, as is done to this day (for the whole law of Evaristus 
remains in full force), and thus became a title or monument. 2 

Two interesting facts are elicited from this narrative. One 
is, that to that time there was only one church with an altar 
in Rome ; and no doubt has ever been raised that this was the 
church afterwards, and yet, known by the name of St. Puden- 
tiana. Another is, that the one altar till then existing was not 
of stone. It was, in fact, the wooden altar used by St. Peter, 
and kept in that church till transferred by St. Sylvester to the 
Lateran basilica, of which it forms the high altar. 3 We further 
conclude, that the law was not retrospective, and that the 
wooden altar of the Popes was preserved at that church, where 
it had been first erected, though from time to time it might be 
carried and used elsewhere. 

The church in the Vicus Patricius, therefore, which existed 
previous to the creation of titles , was not itself a title. It con- 
tinued to be the episcopal, or rather the pontifical church of 
Rome. The pontificate of St. Pius I., from 142 to 157, forms 
an interesting period in its history, for two reasons. 

First, that Pope, without altering the character of the church 
itself, added to it an oratory which he made a titlep and 
having collated to it his brother Pastor, it was called the 
titulus Pastoris , the designation, for a long time, of the cardi- 
nalate attached to the church. This shows that the church 
itself was more than a title. 

Secondly, in this pontificate came to Rome, for the second 

1 Verses 17, 18. 

2 It is not necessary to go into the classical uses of the word titulus. 

3 Only the Pope can say Mass on it, or a cardinal, by authority of a 
special bull. This high altar has been lately magnificently decorated. A 
plank of the wooden altar has always been preserved in St. Peter’s altar at 
St. Pudentiana’s. It has been lately compared with the wood of the Lateran 
altar, and found to be identical. 

4 Its site is now occupied by the Caetani chapel. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


159 

time, and suffered martyrdom, the holy and learned apologist 
St. Justin. By comparing his writings with his Acts, 1 we come 
to some interesting conclusions respecting Christian worship 
in times of persecution. 

“ In what place do the Christians meet ? ” he is asked by 
the judge. 

“ Do you think,” he replies, “ that we all meet in one place? 
It is not so.” But when interrogated where he lived, and where 
he held meetings with his disciples, he answered, “ I have 
lived till now near the house of a certain Martin, at the bath 
known as the Timotine. I have come to Rome for the second 
time, nor do I know any other place but the one I have men- 
tioned.” The Timotine or Timothean baths were part of the 
house of the Pudens family, and are those at which we have said 
that Fulvius and Corvinus met early one morning. Novatus 
and Timotheus were the brothers of the holy virgins Praxedes 
and Pudentiana ; and hence the baths were called the Novatian 
and the Timotine, as they passed from one brother to another. 

St. Justin, therefore, lived on this spot, and, as he knew no 
other in Rome , attended divine worship there. The very claims 
of hospitality would suggest it. Now in his apology, describing 
the Christian liturgy, of course such as he saw it, he speaks 
of the officiating priest in terms that sufficiently describe the 
bishop, or supreme pastor of the place ; not only by giving 
him a title applied to bishops in antiquity, 2 but by describing 
him as the person who has the care of orphans and widows, 
and succours the sick, the indigent, prisoners, strangers who 
come as guests, who, “ in one word, undertakes to provide for 
all in want.” This could be no other than the bishop or pope 
himself. 

We must further observe, that St. Pius is recorded to have 
erected a fixed baptismal font in this church, another prero- 
gative of the cathedral, transferred with the papal altar to the 
Lateran. It is related that the holy Pope Stephen (a.d. 257) 
baptized the tribune Nemesius and his family, with many others, 
in the title of Pastor. 3 And here it was that the blessed deacon 

1 Prefixed to the Maurist edition of his works, or in Ruinart, i. 

2 O 7 rpoeo-Tws, prapositus, see Heb. xiii. 17. 0 rw v Pwfiauav irpoearcjs 
B iKTwp, “Victor bishop of the Romans.” Euseb. H. E. I. v. 24. The 
Greek word used is the same as in St. Justin. 

8 The learned Bianchini plausibly conjectures that the station on Easter 
Sunday is not at the Lateran (the cathedral), nor at St. Peter’s, where the 
Pope officiates, at one of which it would naturally be expected to be, but 
at the Liberian basilica, because it used to be held for the administration 
of baptism at St. Pudentiana’s, which is only a stone’s throw from it. 


160 fabiola; or, 

Laurentius distributed the rich vessels of the Church to the 
poor. 

In time this name has given way to another. But the place 
is the same ; and no doubt can exist, that the church of St. 
Pudentiana was, for the first three centuries, the humble 
cathedral of Rome. 

It was to this spot, therefore, that Torquatus unwillingly 
consented to lead Fulvius, that he might witness the December 
ordination. 

We find either in sepulchral inscriptions, in martyrologies, 
or in ecclesiastical history, abundant traces of all the orders, as 
still conferred in the Catholic Church. Inscriptions perhaps 
more commonly record those of Lector or reader, and of 
Exorcist. We will give one interesting example of each. Of 
a Lector — 

CINNAMIVS OPAS LECTOR TITVLI FASCIOLE AMICVS PAVPERVM QVI 
VIXIT ANN. XLVi. MENS. VII. D. VIII. DEPOSIT IN PACE X. KAL., MART . 1 

Of an Exorcist — 


MACEDONIVS 

EXORCISTA DE KATOLICA , 2 

A difference was, however, that one order was not necessarily 
a passage, or step, to another ; but persons remained, often for 
life, in one of these lesser orders. There was not, therefore, 
that frequent administration of these, nor probably was it 
publicly performed with the higher orders. 

Torquatus, having the necessary pass-word, entered, accom- 
panied by Fulvius, who soon showed himself expert in acting 
as others did around him. The assembly was not large. It 
was held in a hall of the house, converted into a church or 
oratory, which was mainly occupied by the clergy, and the 
candidates for orders. Among the latter were Marcus and 
Marcellianus, the twin-brothers, fellow-converts of Torquatus, 
who received the deaconship, and their father Tranquillinus, 
who was ordained priest. Of these Fulvius impressed well in 
his mind the features and figure ; and still more did he take 
note of the clergy, the most eminent of Rome, there assembled. 

1 “Cinnamius Opas Lector, of the title of Fasciola” (now SS. Nereus 
and Achilleus), “the friend of the poor, who lived forty-six years, seven 
months, and eight days. Interred in peace the tenth day before the calends 
of March.” From St. Paul’s. 

2 “ Macedonius, an exorcist of the Catholic Church.” From the cemetery 
of SS. Thraso and Saturninus, on the Salarian way. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS l6l 

But on one, more than the rest, he fixed his piercing eye, 
studying his every gesture, look, voice, and lineament. 

This was the Pontiff who performed the august rite. Mar- 
cellianus had already governed the Church six years, and was 
of a venerable old age. His countenance, benign and mild, 
scarcely seemed to betoken the possession of that nerve which 
martyrdom required, and which he exhibited in his death for 
Christ. In those days every outward characteristic which 
could have betrayed the chief shepherd to the wolves was care- 
fully avoided. The ordinary simple garb of respectable men 
was worn. But there is no doubt that when officiating at the 
altar, a distinctive robe, the forerunner of the ample chasuble, 
of spotless white, was cast over the ordinary garment. To this 
the bishop added a crown, or infula , the origin of the later 
mitre ; while in his hand he held the crosier, emblem of his 
pastoral office and authority. 

On him who now stood facing the assembly, before the 
sacred altar of Peter, which was between him and the people , 1 
the Eastern spy steadied his keenest glance. He scanned him 
minutely, measured with his eye his height, defined the colour 
of his hair and complexion, observed every turn of his head, 
his walk, his action, his tones, almost his breathing, till he said 
to himself, “If he stirs abroad, disguised as he may choose, 
that man is my prize. And I know his worth.” 


CHAPTER XI 


PRIE IVN PAVSA 
BET PRAETIOSA 
ANNORVM PVLLA 
VIRGO XII TANTVM 
ANCILLA DEI ET XPI 
FL . VINCENTIO ET 
FRAVITO . VC ’ CONSS 2 


If the learned Thomassinus had known this lately discovered 
inscription, when he proved, with such abundance of learning, 

1 In the great and old basilicas of Rome, the celebrant faces the faithful. 

2 “ The day before the first of June, ceased to live Proetiosa, a girl ( puella ), 
a virgin of only twelve years of age, the handmaid of God and of Christ. 
In the consulship of Flavius Vincentius, and Fravitus, a consular man.” 
Found in the cemetery of Callistus. 


1 62 fabiola; or, 

that virginity could be professed in the early Church, at the 
age of twelve, he would certainly have quoted it . 1 For can we 
doubt that “ the girl who was a virgin of only twelve years old, 
a handmaid of God and Christ,” was such by consecration to 
God ? Otherwise, the more tender her age, the less wonderful 
her state of maidenhood. 

But although this, the nubile age, according to Roman law, 
was the one at which such dedication to God was permitted by 
the Church, she reserved to a maturer period that more solemn 
consecration, when the veil of virginity was given by the 
bishop ; generally on Easter Sunday. That first act probably 
consisted of nothing more than receiving from the hands of 
parents a plain dark dress. But when any danger threatened, 
the Church permitted the anticipation, by many years, of that 
period, and fortified the spouses of Christ in their holy purpose, 
by her more solemn blessing . 2 

A persecution of the most savage character was on the point 
of breaking out, which would not spare the most tender of the 
flock ; and it was no wonder that they, who in their hearts had 
betrothed themselves to the Lamb, as His chaste spouses for 
ever, should desire to come to His nuptials before death. They 
longed naturally to bear the full-grown lily, entwined round the 
palm, should this be their portion. 

Agnes had from her infancy chosen for herself this holiest 
state. The superhuman wisdom which had ever exhibited 
itself in her words and actions, blending so gracefully with the 
simplicity of an innocent and guileless childhood, rendered her 
ripe, beyond her years, for any measure of indulgence which 
could be granted to hearts that panted for their chaste bridal- 
hour. She eagerly seized on the claim that coming danger 
gave her, to a more than usual relaxation of that law, which 
prescribed a delay of more than ten years in the fulfilling of 
her desire. Another postulant joined her in this petition. 

We may easily imagine that a holy friendship had been 
growing between her and Syra, from the first interview which 
we have described between them. This feeling had been in- 
creased by all that Agnes had heard Fabiola say in praise of 
her favourite servant. From this, and from the slave’s more 
modest reports, she was satisfied that the work to which she 
had devoted herself, of her mistress’s conversion, must be 
entirely left in her hands. It was evidently prospering, owing 
to the prudence and grace with which it was conducted. In 

1 Vetus et Nova Ecclesice Disciplina ; circa Benejicia. Par. I. lib. iii. 
(Luc. 1727). 2 Thomass. p. 792. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 63 

her frequent visits to Fabiola, she contented herself with 
admiring and approving what her cousin related of Syra’s 
conversations ; but she carefully avoided every expression that 
could raise suspicion of any collusion between them. 

Syra as a dependant, and Agnes as a relation, had put on 
mourning upon Fabius’s death ; and hence no change of habit 
would raise suspicion in his daughter’s mind, of their having 
taken some secret, or some joint step. Thus far they could 
safely ask to be admitted at once to receive the solemn con- 
secration to perpetual virginity. Their petition was granted ; 
but for obvious reasons was kept carefully concealed. It was 
only a day or two before the happy one of their spiritual nup- 
tials, that Syra told it, as a great secret, to her blind friend. 

“And so,” said the latter, pretending to be displeased, “you 
want to keep all the good things to yourself. Do you call that 
charitable, now ? ” 

“ My dear child,” said Syra soothingly, “don’t be offended. 
It was necessary to keep it quite a secret.” 

“ And therefore, I suppose, poor I must not even be present?” 

“ Oh yes, Caecilia, to be sure you may ; and see all that you 
can,” replied Syra, laughing. 

“ Never mind about the seeing. But tell me, how will you 
be dressed ? What have you to get ready ? ” 

Syra gave her an exact description of the habit and veil, 
their colour and form. 

“ How very interesting ! ” she said. “ And what have you 
to do ? ” 

The other, amused at her unwonted curiosity, described 
minutely the short ceremonial. 

“Well now, one question more,” resumed the blind girl. 
“When and where is all this to be? You said I might come, 
so I must know the time and place.” 

Syra told her it would be at the title of Pastor, at daybreak, 
on the third day from that. “ But what has made you so in- 
quisitive, dearest? I never saw you so before. I am afraid 
you are becoming quite worldly.” 

“Never you mind,” replied Caecilia, “if people choose to 
have secrets for me, I do not see why I should not have some 
of my own.’’ 

Syra laughed at her affected pettishness, for she knew well 
the humble simplicity of the poor child’s heart. They em- 
braced affectionately and parted. Caecilia went straight to 
the kind Lucina, for she was a favourite in every house. No 
sooner was she admitted to that pious matron’s presence, than 


1 64 Fabiola; OR, 

she flew to her, threw herself upon her bosom, and burst into 
tears. Lucina soothed and caressed her, and soon composed 
her. In a few minutes she was again bright and joyous, and 
evidently deep in conspiracy with the cheerful lady about 
something which delighted her. When she left she was all 
buoyant and blithe, and went to the house of Agnes, in the 
hospital of which the good priest Dionysius lived. She found 
him at home ; and casting herself on her knees before him, 
talked so fervently to him, that he was moved to tears, and 
spoke kindly and consolingly to her. The Te Deum had not 
yet been written ; but something very like it rang in the blind 
girl’s heart, as she went to her humble home. 

The happy morning at length arrived, and before daybreak 
the more solemn mysteries had been celebrated, and the body 
of the faithful had dispersed. Only those remained who had 
to take part in the more private function, or who were specially 
asked to witness it. These were Lucina and her son, the 
aged parents of Agnes, and, of course, Sebastian. But Syra 
looked in vain for her blind friend ; she had evidently retired 
with the crowd ; and the gentle slave feared she might have 
hurt her feelings by her reserve before their last interview. 

The hall was still shrouded in the dusk of a winter’s twilight, 
although the glowing east without foretold a bright December 
day. On the altar burned perfumed tapers of large dimensions, 
and round it were gold and silver lamps of great value, throw- 
ing an atmosphere of mild radiance upon the sanctuary. In 
front of the altar was placed the chair no less venerable than 
itself, now enshrined in the Vatican, the chair of Peter. On 
this was seated the venerable Pontiff", with staff in hand and 
crown on head, and round him stood his ministers, scarcely 
less worshipful than himself. 

From the gloom of the chapel there came forth first the 
sound of sweet voices, like those of angels, chanting in soft 
cadence a hymn, which anticipated the sentiments soon after 
embodied in the 

“ Jesu corona virginum .” 1 

Then there emerged into the light of the sanctuary the pro- 
cession of already consecrated virgins, led by the priests 
and deacons who had charge of them. And in the midst of 
them appeared two, whose dazzling, white garments shone the 
brighter amidst their dark habits. These were the two new 
postulants, who, as the rest defiled and formed a line on either 

“Jesus the virgin’s crown,” the hymn for virgins. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 65 

side, were conducted, each by two professed, to the foot of 
the altar, where they knelt at the Pontiff’s feet. Their brides- 
maids, or sponsors, stood near to assist in the function. 

Each as she came was asked solemnly what she desired, and 
expressed her wish to receive the veil and practise its duties 
under the care of those chosen guides. For, although conse- 
crated virgins had begun to live in community before this 
period, yet many continued to reside at home, and persecution 
interfered with enclosure. Still there was a place in church, 
boarded off for the consecrated virgins ; and they often met 
apart for particular instruction and devotions. 

The bishop then addressed the young aspirants in glowing 
and affectionate words. He told them how high a call it was 
to lead on earth the lives of angels, who neither marry nor 
give in marriage, to tread the same chaste path to heaven 
which the Incarnate Word chose for His own Mother; and 
arrived there, to be received into the pure ranks of that picked 
host that follows the Lamb whithersoever He goeth. He ex- 
patiated on the doctrine of St. Paul, writing to the Corinthians 
on the superiority of virginity to every other state ; and he 
feelingly described the happiness of having no love on earth 
but one, which, instead of fading, opens out into immortality 
in heaven. For bliss, he observed, is but the expanded flower 
which Divine love bears on earth. 

After this brief discourse, and an examination of the candi- 
dates for this great honour, the holy Pontiff proceeded to bless 
the different portions of their religious habits, by prayers pro- 
bably nearly identical with those now in use, and these were 
put on them by their respective attendants. The new religious 
laid their heads upon the altar, in token of their oblation of 
self. But in the West the hair was not cut, as it was in the 
East, but was always left long. A wreath of flowers was then 
placed upon the head of each ; and though it was winter, the 
well-guarded terrace of Fabiola had been made to furnish 
bright and fragrant blossoms. 

All seemed ended ; and Agnes, kneeling at the foot of the 
altar, was motionless in one of her radiant raptures, gazing 
fixedly upwards ; while Syra, near her, was bowed down, sunk 
into the depths of her gentle humility, wondering how she 
should have been found worthy of so much favour. So ab- 
sorbed were both in their thanksgiving, that they perceived 
not a slight commotion through the assembly, as if something 
unexpected was occurring. 

They were aroused by the bishop repeating the question — 


fabiola; or, 


i 66 

“ My daughter, what dost thou seek ? ” when, before they could 
look round, each felt a hand seized, and heard the answer re- 
turned in a voice dear to both : “ Holy father, to receive the 
veil of consecration to Jesus Christ, my only love on earth, 
under the care of these two holy virgins, already His happy 
spouses.” 

They were overwhelmed with joy and tenderness, for it was 
the poor blind Caecilia. When she heard of the happiness that 
awaited Syra, she had flown, as we have seen, to the kind 
Lucina, who soon consoled her, by suggesting to her the possi- 
bility of obtaining a similar grace. She promised to furnish all 
that was necessary, only Caecilia insisted that her dress should 
be coarse, as became a poor beggar-girl. The priest Dionysius 
presented to the Pontiff, and obtained the grant of, her prayer ; 
and as she wished to have her two friends for sponsors, it was 
arranged that he should lead her up to the altar after their 
consecration. Caecilia, however, kept her secret. 

The blessings were spoken, and the habit and veil put on ; 
when they asked her if she had brought no wreath of flowers. 
Timidly she drew from under her garment the crown she had 
provided, a bare thorny branch, twisted into a circle, and 
presented it, saying — 

“ I have no flowers to offer to my Bridegroom, neither did 
He wears flowers for me. I am but a poor girl, and do you 
think my Lord will be offended, if I ask Him to crown me, as 
He was pleased to be crowned Himself? And then, flowers 
represent virtues in those that wear them ; but my barren heart 
has produced nothing better than these.” 

She saw not, with her blind eyes, how her two companions 
snatched the wreaths from their heads to put on hers ; but a 
sign from the Pontiff checked them ; and amidst moistened 
eyes, she was led forth, all joyous, in her thorny crown ; emblem 
of what the Church has always taught, that the very queenship 
of virtue is innocence crowned by penance. 


CHAPTER XII 
THE NOMENTAN VILLA 

The Nomentan road goes from Rome eastward, and between 
it and the Salarian is a deep ravine, beyond which on the 
side of the Nomentan way lies a gracefully undulating ground. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 67 

Amidst this is situated a picturesque round temple, and near 
it a truly beautiful basilica, dedicated to St. Agnes. Here was 
the villa belonging to her, situated about a mile and a half from 
the city ; and thither it had been arranged that the two, now 
the three, newly consecrated should repair, to spend the day 
in retirement and tranquil joy. Few more such days, perhaps, 
would ever be granted them. 

We need not describe this rural residence, except to say 
that everything in it breathed contentment and happiness. It 
was one of those genial days which a Roman winter supplies. 
The rugged Apennines were slightly powdered with snow ; the 
ground was barely crisp, the atmosphere transparent, the sun- 
shine glowing, and the heavens cloudless. A few greyish curls 
of melting smoke from the cottages and the leafless vines 
alone told that it was December. Everything living seemed to 
know and love the gentle mistress of the place. The doves 
came and perched upon her shoulder or her hand ; the lambs in 
the paddock frisked, and ran to her the moment she approached, 
and took the green fragrant herbs which she brought them 
with evident pleasure ; but none owned her kindly sway so 
much as old Molossus, the enormous watch-dog. Chained 
beside the gate, so fierce was he, that none but a few favourite 
domestics durst go near him. But no sooner did Agnes appear, 
than he crouched down, and wagged his bushy tail, and whined, 
till he was let loose ; for now a child might approach him. He 
never left his mistress’s side ; he followed her like a lamb ; 
and if she sat down, he would lie at her feet, looking into her 
face, delighted to receive on his huge head the caresses of her 
slender hand. 

It was indeed a peaceful day ; sometimes calm and quiet, 
soft and tender, as the three spoke together of the morning’s 
happiness, and of the happier morning of which it was a pledge, 
above the liquid amber of their present skies; sometimes 
cheerful and even merry, as the two took Csecilia to task for 
the trick she had played them. And she laughed cheerily, as 
she always did, and told them she had a better trick in store 
for them yet ; which was, that she would cut them out when 
that next morning came ; for she intended to be the first at it, 
and not the last. 

Fabiola had in the meantime come to the villa to pay her 
first visit to Agnes after her calamity, and to thank her for 
her sympathy. She walked forward, but stopped suddenly on 
coming near the spot where this happy group were assembled. 
For when she beheld the two who could see the outward 


1 68 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


brightness of heaven, hanging over her who seemed to hold 
all its splendour within her soul, she saw at once, in the scene, 
the verification of her dream. Yet unwilling to intrude herself 
unexpectedly upon them, and anxious to find Agnes alone, and 
not with her own slave and a poor blind girl, she turned away 
before she was noticed, and walked towards a distant part of 
the grounds. Still she could not help asking herself, why she 
could not be cheerful and happy as they ? Why was there a 
gulf between them ? 

But the day was not destined to finish without its clouds ; 
it would have been too blissful for earth. Besides Fabiola, 
another person had started from Rome, to pay a less welcome 
visit to Agnes. This was Fulvius, who had never forgotten 
the assurances of Fabius, that his fascinating address and bril- 
liant ornaments had turned the weak head of Agnes. He had 
waited till the first days of mourning were over, and he respected 
the house in which he had once received such a rude reception, 
or rather suffered such a summary ejectment. Having ascer- 
tained that, for the first time, she had gone without her parents, 
or any male attendants, to her suburban villa, he considered it 
a good opportunity for pressing his suit. He rode out of the 
Nomen tan gate, and was soon at Agnes’s. He dismounted; 
said he wished to see her on important business ; and, after some 
importunity, was admitted by the porter. He was directed 
along a walk, at the end of which she would be found. The 
sun was declining, and her companions had strolled to a dis- 
tance ; and she was sitting alone in a bright sunny spot, with 
old Molossus crouching at her feet. The slightest approach to 
a growl from him, rare when he was with her, made her look 
up from her work of tying together such winter flowers as the 
others brought her, while she suppressed, by raising a finger, 
this expression of instinctive dislike. 

Fulvius came near with a respectful, but freer air than usual, 
as one already assured of his request. 

“ I have come, Lady Agnes,” he said, “ to renew to you the 
expression of my sincere regard ; and I could not have chosen 
a better day, for brighter or fairer scarcely the summer sun 
could have bestowed.” 

“ Fair, indeed, and bright it has been to me,” replied Agnes, 
borne back in mind to the morning’s scene; “and no sun in my 
life has ever given me fairer, — it can only give me one more fair.” 

Fulvius was flattered, as if the compliment was to his pre- 
sence, and answered, “ The day, no doubt you mean, of your 
espousals with one who may have won your heart.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 69 

“That is indeed done,” she replied, as if unconsciously; 
“and this is his own precious day.” 

“ And was that wreathed veil upon your head placed there 
in anticipation of this happy hour ? ” 

“Yes; it is the sign my beloved has placed upon my coun- 
tenance, that I recognise no lover but himself.” 1 

“ And who is this happy being ? I was not without hopes, 
nor will I renounce them yet, that I have a place in your 
thoughts, perhaps in your affections.” 

Agnes seemed scarcely to heed his words. There was no 
appearance of shyness or timidity in her looks or manner, no 
embarrassment even — 

“ Spotless without, and innocent within, 

She feared no danger, for she knew no sin.” 

Her childlike countenance remained bright, open, and guile- 
less ; her eyes, mildly beaming, looked straight upon Fulvius’s 
face with an earnest simplicity, that made him almost quail 
before her. She stood up now, with graceful dignity, as she 
replied, “ Milk and honey exhaled from his lips, as the blood 
from his stricken cheek impressed itself on mine.” 2 

She is crazed, Fulvius was just beginning to think; when 
the inspired look of her countenance, and the clear brightness 
of her eye, as she gazed forwards towards some object seen by 
herself alone, overawed and subdued him. She recovered in 
an instant ; and again he took heart. He resolved at once to 
pursue his demand. 

“Madam,” he said, “you are trifling with one who sincerely 
admires and loves you. I know from the best authority, — yes, 
the best authority, — that of a mutual friend departed, that you 
have been pleased to think favourably of me, and to express 
yourself not opposed to my urging my claims to your hand. I 
now, therefore, seriously and earnestly solicit it. I may seem 
abrupt and informal, but I am sincere and warm.” 

“ Begone from me, food of corruption ! ” she said, with calm 
majesty; “for already a lover has secured my heart, for whom 
alone I keep my troth, to whom I intrust myself with undivided 
devotion ; one whose love is chaste, whose caress is pure, whose 
brides never put off their virginal wreaths.” 3 

1 “Posuit signum in faciem meam, ut nullum prseter eum amatorem 
admittam .” — Office of St. Agnes. 

2 “ Mel et lac ex ejus ore suscepi, et sanguis ejus ornavit genasmeas.” — Ibid. 

3 “ Discede a me pabulum mortis, quia jam ab alio amatore praeventa sum.” 
“ Ipsi soli servo fidem, ipsi me tota devotione committo.” “ Quem cum ama- 
vero casta sum, cum tetigero munda sum cum accepero virgo sum.” — Ibid. 


jyo fabiola; or, 

Fulvius, who had dropped on his knee as he concluded his 
last sentence, and had thus drawn forth that severe rebuke, 
rose, filled with spite and fury, at having been so completely 
deluded. “Is it not enough to be rejected,” he said, “after 
having been encouraged, but must insult be heaped on me too ? 
and must I be told to my face that another has been before 

me to-day ? — Sebastian, I suppose, again ” 

“Who are you?” exclaimed an indignant voice behind 
him, “ that dare to utter with disdain the name of one whose 
honour is untarnished, and whose virtue is as unchallenged 
as his courage ? ” 

He turned round, and stood confronted with Fabiola, who, 
having walked for some time about the garden, thought she 
would now probably find her cousin disengaged, and by her- 
self. She had come upon him suddenly, and had caught his 
last words. Fulvius was abashed, and remained silent. 

Fabiola, with a noble indignation, continued : “ And who, 
too, are you, who, not content with having once thrust your- 
self into my kinswoman’s house to insult her, presume now to 
intrude upon the privacy of her rural retreat ? ” 

“And who are you,” retorted Fulvius, “who take upon your- 
self to be imperious mistress in another’s house ? ” 

“One,” replied the lady, “who, by allowing my cousin to 
meet you first at her table, and there discovering your designs 
upon an innocent child, feels herself bound in honour and duty 
to thwart them, and to shield her from them.” 

She took Agnes by the hand, and was leading her away ; 
and Molossus required what he never remembered to have 
received before, but what he took delightedly, a gentle little 
tap, to keep him from more than growling; when Fulvius, 
gnashing his teeth, muttered audibly — 

“ Haughty Roman dame ! thou shalt bitterly rue this day 
and hour, Thou shalt know and feel how Asia can revenge.” 


CHAPTER XIII 

THE EDICT 

The day being at length arrived for its publication in Rome, 
Corvinus fully felt the importance of the commission intrusted 
to him, of affixing in its proper place in the Forum, the Edict of 
extermination against the Christians, or rather the sentence of 



1 Haughty Roman dams, thou shalt bitterly rue this clay and hour.’ ” — Page 170 



















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. 




THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 7 I 

extirpation of their very name. News had been received from 
Nicodemia that a brave Christian soldier, named George, had 
torn down a similar imperial decree, and had manfully suffered 
death for his boldness. Corvinus was determined that nothing 
of the sort should happen in Rome ; for he feared too seriously 
the consequences of such an occurrence to himself ; he there- 
fore took every precaution in his power The Edict had been 
written in large characters, upon sheets of parchment joined 
together ; and these were nailed to a board, firmly supported 
by a pillar, against which it was hung, not far from the Puteal 
Libonis, the magistrate’s chair in the Forum. This, however, 
was not done till the Forum was deserted, and night had well 
set in. It was thus intended that the Edict should meet the 
eyes of the citizens early in the morning, and strike their minds 
with more tremendous effect. 

To prevent the possibility of any nocturnal attempt to destroy 
the precious document, Corvinus, with much the same cunning 
precaution as was taken by the Jewish priests to prevent the 
Resurrection, obtained for a night-guard to the Forum, a com- 
pany of the Pannonian cohort, a body composed of soldiers be- 
longing to the fiercest races of the North, Dacians, Pannonians, 
Sarmatians, and Germans, whose uncouth features, savage 
aspect, matted sandy hair, and bushy red moustaches, made 
them appear absolutely ferocious to Roman eyes. These men 
could scarcely speak Latin, but were ruled by officers of their 
own countries, and formed, in the decline of the empire, the 
most faithful bodyguard of the reigning tyrants, often their 
fellow-countrymen ; for there was no excess too monstrous for 
them to commit, if duly commanded to execute it. 

A number of these savages, ever rough and ready, were dis- 
tributed so as to guard every avenue of the Forum, with strict 
orders to pierce through, or hew down, any one who should 
attempt to pass without the watchword, or symbolum. This 
was every night distributed by the general in command, 
through his tribunes and centurions, to all the troops. But 
to prevent all possibility of any Christian making use of it that 
night, if he should chance to discover it, the cunning Corvinus 
had one chosen which he felt sure no Christian would use. It 
was numen imperatorum — the “ Divinity of the Emperors.” 

The last thing which he did was to make his rounds, giving 
to each sentinel the strictest injunctions, and most minutely to 
the one whom he had placed close to the Edict. This man 
had been chosen for his post on account of his rude strength 
and huge bulk, and the peculiar ferocity of his looks and 


172 fabiola; or, 

character. Corvinus gave him the most rigid instructions 
how he was to spare nobody, but to prevent any one’s inter- 
ference with the sacred Edict. He repeated to him again and 
again the watchword, and left him, already half-stupid with 
sabaia or beer , 1 in the merest animal consciousness, that it was 
his business, not an unpleasant one, to spear or sabre some one 
or other before morning. The night was raw and gusty, with 
occasional sharp and slanting showers ; and the Dacian wrapped 
himself in his cloak, and walked up and down, occasionally 
taking a long pull at a flask concealed about him, containing 
a liquor said to be distilled from the wild cherries of the 
Thuringian forests ; and in the intervals muddily meditating, 
not on the wood or river, by which his young barbarians were 
at play, but how soon it would be time to cut the present 
emperor’s throat, and sack the city. 

While all this was going on, old Diogenes and his hearty 
sons were in their poor house in the Suburra, not far off, 
making preparations for their frugal meal. They were inter- 
rupted by a gentle tap at the door, followed by the lifting of 
the latch, and the entrance of two young men, whom Diogenes 
at once recognised and welcomed. 

“ Come in, my noble young masters ; how good of you thus 
to honour my poor dwelling ! I hardly dare offer you our 
plain fare ; but if you will partake of it, you will indeed give 
us a Christian love-feast.” 

“ Thank you most kindly, father Diogenes,” answered the 
elder of the two, Quadratus, Sebastian’s sinewy centurion ; 
“ Pancratius and I have come expressly to sup with you. But 
not as yet ; we have some business in this part of the town, 
and after it we shall be glad to eat something. In the mean- 
time one of your youths can go out and cater for us. Come, 
we must have something good ; and I want you to cheer your- 
self with a moderate cup of generous wine.” 

Saying this, he gave his purse to one of the sons, with in- 
structions to bring home some better provisions than he knew 
the simple family usually enjoyed. They sat down ; and Pan- 
cratius, by way of saying something, addressed the old man. 
“ Good Diogenes, I have heard Sebastian say that you remem- 
ber seeing the glorious Deacon Laurentius die for Christ. Tell 
me something about him.” 

1 “ Est autem sabaia ex hordeo vel frumento in liquorem conversis pauper- 
tinus in Illyrico potus.” “Sabaia is the drink of the poor in Illyria, made 
of barley or wheat, transformed into a liquid.” ( Ammian , Marcellinus , lib, 
xxvi. 8, p. 422, ed. Lips.) 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


173 

“ With pleasure,” answered the old man. “ It is now nearly 
forty-five years since it happened , 1 and as I was older then than 
you are now, you may suppose I remember all quite distinctly. 
He was indeed a beautiful youth to look at ; so mild and sweet, 
so fair and graceful ; and his speech was so gentle, so soft, 
especially when speaking to the poor. How they all loved 
him ! I followed him everywhere ; I stood by, as the vener- 
able Pontiff Sixtus was going to death, and Laurentius met 
him, and so tenderly reproached him, just as a son might a 
father, for not allowing him to be his companion in the sacri- 
fice of himself, as he had ministered to him in the sacrifice of 
our Lord’s body and blood.” 

“Those were splendid times, Diogenes, were they not?” 
interrupted the youth ; “ how degenerate we are now ! What 
a different race ! Are we not, Quadratus ? ” 

The rough soldier smiled at the generous sincerity of his 
complaint, and bid Diogenes go on. 

“I saw him, too, as he distributed the rich plate of the 
Church to the poor. We have never had anything so splendid 
since. There were golden lamps and candlesticks censers, 
chalices, and patens , 2 besides an immense quantity of silver 
melted down, and distributed to the blind, the lame, and the 
indigent.” 

“But tell me,” asked Pancratius, “how did he endure his 
last dreadful torment? It must have been frightful.” 

“ I saw it all,” answered the old fossor, “ and it would have 
been intolerably frightful in another. He had been first placed 
on the rack, and variously tormented, and he had not uttered 
a groan ; when the judge ordered that horrid bed, or gridiron, 
to be prepared and heated. To look at his tender flesh blis- 
tering and breaking over the fire, and deeply scored with red 
burning gashes that cut to the bone where the iron bars went 
across ; to see the steam, thick as from a cauldron, rise from 
his body, and hear the fire hiss beneath him, as he melted 
away into it ; and every now and then to observe the tremu- 
lous quivering that crept over the surface of his skin, the living 
motion which the agony gave to each separate muscle, and the 
sharp spasmodic twitches which convulsed and gradually con- 
tracted his limbs; all this, I own, was the most harrowing 
spectacle I have ever beheld in all my life. But to look into 
his countenance was to forget all this. His head was raised 
up from the burning body, and stretched out, as if fixed on 
the contemplation of some most celestial vision, like that of his 
1 A.D. 258. 3 Prudentius, in his hymn on St. Laurence. 


174 fabiola; or, 

fellow-deacon Stephen. His face glowed indeed with the heat 
below, and the perspiration flowed down it ; but the light from 
the fire shining upwards, and passing through his golden locks, 
created a glory round his beautiful head and countenance, 
which made him look as if already in heaven. And every 
feature, serene and sweet as ever, was so impressed with an 
eager, longing look, accompanying the upward glancing of his 
eye, that you would willingly have changed places with him.” 

“That I would,” again broke in Pancratius, “and as soon 
as God pleases ! I dare not think that I could stand what 
he did ; for he was indeed a noble and heroic Levite, while I 
am only a weak imperfect boy. But do you not think, dear 
Quadratus, that strength is given in that hour proportionate to 
our trials, whatever they may be? You, I know, would stand 
anything ; for you are a fine stout soldier, accustomed to toil 
and wounds. But as for me, I have only a willing heart to 
give. Is that enough, think you ? ” 

“ Quite, quite, my dear boy,” exclaimed the centurion, full 
of emotion, and looking tenderly on the youth, who with glis- 
tening eyes, having risen from his seat, had placed his hands 
upon the officer’s shoulders. “ God will give you strength, as 
He has already given you courage. But we must not forget 
our night’s work. Wrap yourself well up in your cloak, and 
bring your toga quite over your head ; so ! It is a wet and 
bitter night. Now, good Diogenes, put more wood on the fire, 
and let us find supper ready on our return. We shall not be 
long absent ; and just leave the door ajar.” 

“ Go, go, my sons,” said the old man, “and God speed you ! 
whatever you are about, I am sure it is something praise- 
worthy.” 

Quadratus sturdily drew his chlamys, or military cloak, 
around him, and the two youths plunged into the dark lanes 
of the Suburra, and took the direction of the Forum. While 
they were absent, the door was opened, with the well-known 
salutation of “thanks to God;” and Sebastian entered, and 
inquired anxiously if Diogenes had seen anything of the two 
young men ; for he had got a hint of what they were going to 
do. He was told they were expected in a few moments. 

A quarter of an hour had scarcely elapsed, when hasty 
steps were heard approaching ; the door was pushed open, and 
was as quickly shut, and then fast barred, behind Quadratus 
and Pancratius. 

“Here it is,” said the latter, producing, with a hearty laugh, 
a bundle of crumpled parchment. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 75 

“What?” asked all eagerly. 

“Why the grand decree, of course,” answered Pancratius, 
with boyish glee ; “ look here, ‘ Domini nostri Diocletianus 
et Maximianus, invicti, seniores Augusti, patres Impera- 
torum ET Cesarum,’ 1 and so forth. Here it goes ! ” And 
he thrust it into the blazing fire, while the stalwart sons of 
Diogenes threw a faggot over it to keep it down, and drown its 
crackling. There it frizzled, and writhed, and cracked, and 
shrunk, first one letter or word coming up, then another; first 
an emperor’s praise, and then an anti-Christian blasphemy ; till 
all had subsided into a black ashy mass. 

And what else, or more, would those be in a few years who 
had issued that proud document, when their corpses should 
have been burnt on a pile of cedar-wood and spices, and their 
handful of ashes be scraped together, hardly enough to fill a 
gilded urn? And what also, in very few years more, would 
that heathenism be, which it was issued to keep alive, but a 
dead letter at most, and as worthless a heap of extinguished 
embers as lay on that hearth? And the very empire which 
these “unconquered” Augusti were bolstering up by cruelty 
and injustice, how in a few centuries would it resemble that 
annihilated decree ? the monuments of its grandeur lying in 
ashes or in ruins, and proclaiming that there is no true Lord 
but one stronger than Caesars, the Lord of lords; and that 
neither counsel nor strength of man shall prevail against Him. 

Something like this did Sebastian think, perhaps, as he gazed 
abstractedly on the expiring embers of the pompous and cruel 
Edict which they had torn down, not for a wanton frolic, but 
because it contained blasphemies against God and His holiest 
truths. They knew that if they should be discovered, tenfold 
tortures would be their lot ; but Christians in those days, 
when they contemplated and prepared for martyrdom, made 
no calculation on that head. Death for Christ, whether quick 
and easy, or lingering and painful, was the end for which they 
looked ; and, like brave soldiers going to battle, they did not 
speculate where a shaft or a sword might strike them, whether 
a death-blow would at once stun them out of existence, or they 
should have to writhe for hours upon the ground, mutilated or 
pierced, to die by inches among the heaps of unheeded slain. 

Sebastian soon recovered, and had hardly the heart to reprove 
the perpetrators of this deed. In truth, it had its ridiculous 
side, and he was inclined to laugh at the morrow’s dismay. 

1 “ Our lords Dioclesian and Maximian, the unconquered, elder Augusti, 
fathers of the Emperors and Caesars.” 


176 fabiola; or, 

This view he gladly took ; for he saw Pancratius watched his 
looks with some trepidation, and his centurion looked a little dis- 
concerted. So, after a hearty laugh, they sat down cheerfully 
to their meal ; for it was not midnight, and the hour for com- 
mencing the fast, preparatory to receiving the Holy Eucharist, 
was not arrived. Quadratus’s object, besides kindness, in this 
arrangement, was partly, that if surprised, a reason for their 
being there might be apparent, partly to keep up the spirits of 
his younger companion and of Diogenes’s household, if alarmed 
at the bold deed just performed. But there was no appearance 
of any such feeling. The conversation soon turned upon 
recollections of Diogenes’s youth, and the good old fervent 
times, as Pancratius would persist in calling them. Sebastian 
saw his friend home, and then took a round, to avoid the Forum 
in seeking his own abode. If any one had seen Pancratius 
that night, when alone in his chamber preparing to retire to rest, 
he would have seen him every now and then almost laughing 
at some strange but pleasant adventure. 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE DISCOVERY 

At the first dawn of morning, Corvinus was up ; and, notwith- 
standing the gloominess of the day, proceeded straight to the 
Forum. He found his outposts quite undisturbed, and hastened 
to the principal object of his care. It would be useless to at- 
tempt describing his astonishment, his rage, his fury, when he 
saw the blank board, with only a few shreds of parchment left 
round the nails, and beside it standing, in unconscious stolidity, 
his Dacian sentinel. 

He would have darted at his throat, like a tiger, if he had 
not seen in the barbarian’s twinkling eye a sort of hyaena squint, 
which told him he had better not. But he broke out at once 
into a passionate exclamation — 

“ Sirrah ! how has the Edict disappeared ? Tell me directly 1” 
“Softly, softly, Herr Kornweiner,” answered the impertur- 
bable Northern. “There it is as you left it in my charge.” 
“Where, you fool? Come and look at it.” 

“ The Dacian went to his side, and for the first time confronted 
the board; and after looking at it for some moments, exclaimed* 
“Well, is not that the board you hung up last night?” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 77 

“ Yes, you blockhead, but there was writing on it, which is 
gone. That is what you had to guard.” 

“Why, look you, captain, as to writing, you see I know 
nothing, having never been a scholar; but as it was raining all 
night, it may have been washed out.” 

“ And as it was blowing, I suppose the parchment on which 
it was written was blown off.” 

“No doubt, Herr Kornweiner; you are quite right.” 

“ Come, sir, this is no joking matter. Tell me at once who 
came here last night.” 

“ Why, two of them came.” 

“Two of what?” 

“Two wizards, or goblins, or worse.” 

“None of that nonsense for me.” The Dacian’s eye flashed 
drunkenly again. “ Well, tell me, Arminius, what sort of people 
they were, and what they did.” 

“Why, one of them was but a stripling, a boy, tall and thin, 
who went round the pillar, and I suppose must have taken away 
what you miss, while I was busy with the other.” 

“ And what of him ? What was he like ? ” 

The soldier opened his mouth and eyes, and stared at 
Corvinus for some moments, then said, with a sort of stupid 
solemnity, “What was he like? Why, if he was not Thor 
himself, he wasn’t far from it. I never felt such strength.” 

“ What did he do to show it ? ” 

“He came up first, and began to chat quite friendly; 
asked me if it was not very cold, and that sort of thing. 
At last, I remembered that I had to run through any one that 
came near me ” 

“Exactly,” interrupted Corvinus; “and why did you not 
do it?” 

“Only because he wouldn’t let me. I told him to be off, 
or I should spear him, and drew back and stretched out my 
javelin ; when in the quietest manner, but I don’t know how, 
he twisted it out of my hand, broke it over 'his knee as it 
it had been a mountebank’s wooden sword, and dashed the 
iron-headed piece fast into the ground, where you see it, fifty 
yards off.” 

“ Then why did you not rush on him with your sword, and 
despatch him at once ? But where is your sword ? it is not in 
your scabbard.” 

The Dacian, with a stupid grin, pointed to the roof of the 
neighbouring basilica, and said, “There, don’t you see it 
shining on the tiles in tb ~ morning light ? ” Corvinus looked, 

* M 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


178 

and there indeed he saw what appeared like such an object, 
but he could hardly believe his own eyes. 

“ How did it get there, you stupid booby ? ” he asked. 

The soldier twisted his moustache in an ominous way, 
which made Corvinus ask again more civilly, and then he was 
answered — 

“ He, or it, whatever it was, without any apparent effort, by 
a sort of conjuring, whisked it out of my hand, and up where 
you see it, as easily as I could cast a quoit a dozen yards.” 

“And then?” 

“And then, he and the boy, who came from round the pillar, 
walked off in the dark.” 

“What a strange story!” muttered Corvinus to himself; 
“ yet there are proofs of the fellow’s tale. It is not every one 
who could have performed that feat. But pray, sirrah, why 
did you not give the alarm, and rouse the other guards to 
pursuit ? ” 

“ First, Master Kornweiner, because, in my country, we will 
fight any living men, but we do not choose to pursue hobgob- 
lins. And secondly, what was the use ? I saw the board that 
you gave into my care all safe and sound.” 

“ Stupid barbarian ! ” growled Corvinus, but well within his 
teeth; then added: “This business will go hard with you; 
you know it is a capital offence.” 

“What is?” 

“Why, to let a man come up and speak to you without 
giving the watchword.” 

“Gently, captain, who says he did not give it? I never 
said so.” 

“But did he though? Then it could be no Christian.” 

“ Oh yes, he came up, and said quite plainly, ‘ Nomen Im- 
pend forum .’ ” 1 

“ What ? ” roared out Corvinus. 

“ Nomen ImperatorumP 

“ ‘ Numen l??iperatorum ’ was the watchword,” shrieked the 
enraged Roman. 

u Nomen ox Numen, it’s all the same, I suppose. A letter 
can’t make any difference. You call me Arminius, and I call 
myself Hermann, and they mean the same. How should 1 
know your nice points of language ? ” 

Corvinus was enraged at himself : for he saw how much 
better he would have gained his ends by putting a sharp, 
intelligent praetorian on duty, instead of a sottish, savage 
1 The name of the emperor. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


179 


foreigner. “ Well,” he said, in the worst of humours, “you will 
have to answer to the emperor for all this ; and you know he 
is not accustomed to pass over offences.” 

“ Look you now, Herr Krummbeiner,” returned the soldier, 
with a look of sly stolidity ; “ as to that, we are pretty well in 
the same boat.” (Corvinus turned pale, for he knew this was 
true.) “And you must contrive something to save me, if you 
want to save yourself. It was you the emperor made respon- 
sible for the what-d’ye-call it? — that board.” 

“You are right, my friend; I must make it out that a strong 
body attacked you, and killed you at your post. So shut your- 
self up in quarters for a few days, and you shall have plenty of 
beer, till the thing blows over.” 

The soldier went off, and concealed himself. A few days 
after, the dead body of a Dacian, evidently murdered, was 
washed on the banks of the Tiber. It was supposed he had 
fallen in some drunken row ; and no further trouble was taken 
about it. The fact was indeed so ; but Corvinus could have 
given the best account of the transaction. Before, however, 
leaving the ill-omened spot in the Forum, he had carefully 
examined the ground, for any trace of the daring act ; when 
he picked up, close under the place of the Edict, a knife, which 
he was sure he had seen at school, in possession of one of his 
companions. He treasured it up, as an implement of future 
vengeance, and hastened to provide another copy of the 
decree. 


CHAPTER XV 

EXPLANATIONS 

When morning had fairly broken, crowds streamed from 
every side into the Forum, curious to read the tremendous 
Edict so long menaced. But when they found only a bare 
board, there was a universal uproar. Some admired the spirit 
of the Christians, so generally reckoned cowardly ; others were 
indignant at the audacity of such an act ; some ridiculed the 
officials concerned in the proclamation, others were angry that 
the expected sport of the day might be delayed. 

At an early hour the places of public fashionable resort were 
all occupied with the same theme. In the great Antonian 
Thermae a group of regular frequenters were talking it over. 
There were Scaurus the lawyer, and Proculus, and Fulvius, 


180 fabiola; or, 

and the philosopher Calpurnius, who seemed very busy with 
some musty volumes, and several others. 

“What a strange affair this is about the Edict ! ” said one. 

“ Say rather, what a treasonable outrage against the divine 
emperors ! ” answered Fulvius. 

“ How was it done ? ” asked a third. 

“ Have you not heard,” said Proculus, “ that the Dacian 
guard stationed at the Puteal was found dead, with twenty- 
seven poniard-wounds on him, nineteen of which would have 
sufficed each by itself to cause death ? ” 

“No, that is quite a false report,” interrupted Scaurus; “it 
was not done by violence, but entirely by witchcraft. Two 
women came up to the soldier, who drove his lance at one, 
and it passed clean through her, and stuck in the ground on 
the other side, without making any wound in her. He then 
hacked at the other with his sword, but he might as well have 
struck at marble. She then threw a pinch of powder upon 
him, and he flew into the air, and was found, asleep and un- 
hurt, this morning, on the roof of the ^Emilian basilica. A 
friend of mine, who was out early, saw the ladder up, by which 
he had been brought down.” 

“ Wonderful ! ” many exclaimed. “ What extraordinary 
people these Christians must be ! ” 

“ I don’t believe a word of it,” observed Proculus. “There 
is no such power in magic ; ind certainly I don’t see why these 
wretched men should possess it more than their betters. Come, 
Calpurnius,” he continued, “ put by that old book, and answer 
these questions. I learnt more, one day after dinner, about 
these Christians from you, than I had heard in all my life before. 
What a wonderful memory you must have, to remember so ac- 
curately the genealogy and history of that barbarous people ! 
Is what Scaurus has just told us possible, or not ? ” 

Calpurnius delivered himself, with great pompousness, as 
follows : — 

“There is no reason to suppose such a thing impossible, 
for the power of magic has no bounds. To prepare a powder 
that would make a man fly in the air, it would be only neces- 
sary to find some herbs in which' air predominates more than 
the other three elements. Such, for instance, are pulse, or 
lentils, according to Pythagoras. These, being gathered when 
the sun is in Libra, the nature of which is to balance even 
heavy things in the air, at the moment of conjunction with 
Mercury, a winged power as you know, and properly energised 
by certain mysterious words by a skilful magician, then reduced 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 8 1 

to powder in a mortar made out of an aerolite, or stone that 
had flown up into the sky and come down again, would no 
doubt, when rightly used, enable or force a person to fly up 
into the air. It is well known, indeed, that the Thessalian 
witches go at pleasure through the clouds, from place to place, 
which must be done by means of some such charm.” 

“ Then as to the Christians ; you will remember, excellent 
Proculus, that in the account to which you have done me the 
honour to allude, which was at the deified Fabius’s table, if I 
remember right, I mentioned that the sect came originally from 
Chaldaea, a country always famous for its occult arts. But we 
have a most important evidence bearing on this matter recorded 
in history. It is quite certain that, here in Rome, a certain 
Simon, who was sometimes called Simon Peter, and at other 
times Simon Magus, actually in public flew up high into the 
air ; but his charm having slipped out of his belt, he fell and 
broke both his legs ; for which reason he was obliged to be 
crucified with his head downwards.” 

“Then are all Christians necessarily sorcerers?” asked 
Scaurus. 

“ Necessarily ; it is part of their superstition. They believe 
their priests to have most extraordinary power over nature. 
Thus, for example, they think they can bathe the bodies of 
people in water, and their souls acquire thereby wonderful 
gifts and superiority, should they be slaves, over their masters 
and the divine emperors themselves.” 

“ Dreadful ! ” all cried out. 

“Then, again,” resumed Calpurnius, “we all know what a . 
frightful crime some of them committed last night in tearing 
down a supreme Edict of the imperial deities ; and even sup- 
pose (which the gods avert) that they carried their treasons 
still further, and attempted their sacred lives, they believe that 
they have only to go to one of those priests, own the crime, and 
ask for pardon ; and, if he gives it, they consider themselves as 
perfectly guiltless.” 

“Fearful !” joined in the chorus. 

“ Such a doctrine,” said Scaurus, “ is incompatible with the 
safety of the state. A man who thinks he can be pardoned 
by another man of every crime, is capable of committing 
any.” 

“ And that, no doubt,” observed Fulvius, “ is the cause of this 
new and terrible Edict against them. After what Calpurnius 
has told us about these desperate men, nothing can be too 
severe against them.” 


182 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


Fulvius had been keenly eyeing Sebastian, who had entered 
during the conversation ; and now pointedly addressed him. 

“And you, no doubt, think so too, Sebastian; do you 
not ? ” 

“ I think,” he calmly replied, “ that if the Christians be such 
as Calpurnius describes them, infamous sorcerers, they deserve 
to be exterminated from the face of the earth. But even so, 
I would gladly give them one chance of escape.” 

“ And what is that ? ” sneeringly asked Fulvius. 

“ That no one should be allowed to join in destroying them, 
who could not prove himself freer from crime than they. I 
would have no one raise his hand against them, who cannot 
show that he has never been an adulterer, an extortioner, a 
deceiver, a drunkard, a bad husband, father, or child, a profli- 
gate, or a thief For with being any of these, no one charges 
the poor Christians.” 1 

Fulvius winced under the catalogue of vices, and still more 
under the indignant but serene glance of Sebastian. But at 
the word “ thief,” he fairly leapt. Had the soldier seen him pick 
up the scarf in Fabius’s house ? Be it so or not, the dislike he 
had taken to Sebastian, at their first meeting, had ripened into 
hatred at their second ; and hatred in that heart was only written 
in blood. He had only intensity now to add to that feeling. 

Sebastian went out ; and his thoughts got vent in familiar 
words of prayer. “ How long, O Lord ! how long ? What 
hopes can we entertain of the conversion of many to the truth, 
still less of the conversion of this great empire, so long as we 
find even honest and learned men believing at once every 
calumny spoken against us; treasuring up, from age to age, 
every fable and fiction about us ; and refusing even to inquire 
into our doctrines, because they have made up their minds that 
they are false and contemptible ? ” 

He spoke aloud, believing himself alone, when a sweet voice 
answered him at his side : “ Good youth, whoever thou art that 
speakest thus, and methinks I know thy voice, remember that 
the Son of God gave light to the dark eye of the body, by 
spreading thereon clay ; which, in man’s hands, would have 
only blinded the seeing. Let us be as dust beneath His feet, 
if we wish to become His means of enlightening the eyes of 
men’s souls. Let us be trampled on a little longer in patience ; 
perhaps even from our ashes may come out the spark to blaze.” 

“Thank you, thank you, Csecilia,” said Sebastian, “for your 

1 See Lucian’s address to the Judge, upon Ptolemseus’s condemnation, in 
the beginning of St. Justin’s Second Apology , or in Ruinart, vol. i. p. 120. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 83 

just and kind rebuke. Whither tripping on so gaily on this 
first day of danger ? ” 

“ Do you not know that I have been named guide of the 
cemetery of Callistus ? I am going to take possession. Pray 
that I may be the first flower of this coming spring.” 

And she passed on, singing blithely. But Sebastian begged 
her to stay one moment. 


CHAPTER XVI 

THE WOLF IN THE FOLD 

After the adventures of the night, our youths had not much 
time for rest. Long before daybreak, the Christians had to be 
up, and assemble at their several titles, so as to disperse before 
day. It was to be their last meeting there. The oratories 
were .to be closed, and divine worship had to begin, from that 
day, in the subterranean churches of the cemeteries. It could 
not, indeed, be expected that all would be able to travel with 
safety, even on the Sunday, some miles beyond the gate . 1 A 
great privilege was consequently granted to the faithful at such 
times of trouble, that of preserving the Blessed Eucharist in their 
houses, and communicating themselves privately in the morning, 
“before taking other food,” as Tertullian expresses it . 2 

The faithful felt, not as sheep going to the slaughter, not as 
criminals preparing for execution, but as soldiers arming for 
fight. Their weapons, their food, their strength, their courage, 
were all to be found in their Lord’s table. Even the lukewarm 
and the timid gathered fresh spirit from the bread of life. In 
churches, as yet may be seen in the cemeteries, were chairs 
placed for the penitentiaries, before whom the sinner knelt, and 
confessed his sins, and received absolution. In moments like 
this, the penitential code was relaxed, and the terms of public 
expiation shortened; and the whole night had been occupied 
by tbie zealous clergy in preparing their flocks for, to many, their 
last public communion on earth. 

We need not remind our readers, that the office then per- 
formed was essentially, and in many details, the same as they 

1 There was one cemetery called ad sextum Philippi , which is supposed 
to have been situated six miles from Rome ; but many were three miles 
from the heart of the city. 

2 Ad UxQrem , lib, ii. c. 5, 


1 84 fabiola; or, 

daily witness at the Catholic altar. Not only was it considered, 
as now, to be the Sacrifice of Our Lord’s Body and Blood, not 
only were the oblation, the consecration, the communion alike, 
but many of the prayers were identical ; so that the Catholic 
hearing them recited, and still more the priest reciting them, 
in the same language as the Roman Church of the catacombs 
spoke, may feel himself in active and living communion with 
the martyrs who celebrated, and the martyrs who assisted at, 
those sublime mysteries. 

On the occasion which we are describing, when the time came 
for giving the kiss of peace — a genuine embrace of brotherly 
love — sobs could be heard, and bursts of tears ; for it was to 
many a parting salutation. Many a youth clung to his father’s 
neck, scarcely knowing whether that day might not sever them, 
till they waved their palm-branches together in heaven. And 
how would mothers press their daughters to their bosom, in 
the fervour of that new love, which fear of long separation en- 
kindled ! Then came the communion, more solemn than usual, 
more devout, more hushed to stillness. “The Body of our 
Lord Jesus Christ,” said the priest to each, as he offered him 
the sacred food. “ Amen,” replied the receiver, with thrilling 
accents of faith and love. Then extending in his hand an 
ovarium , or white linen cloth, he received in it a provision of 
the bread of life, sufficient to last him till some future feast. 
This was most carefully and reverently folded, and laid in the 
bosom, wrapped up often in another and more precious cover- 
ing, or even placed in a gold locket . 1 It was now that, for the 
first time, poor Syra regretted the loss of her rich embroidered 
scarf, which would long before have been given to the poor, had 
she not studiously reserved it for such an occasion and such 
a use. Nor had her mistress been able to prevail upon her to 
accept any objects of value, without a stipulation that she might 
dispose of them as she liked, that was, in charitable gifts. 

The various assemblies had broken up before the discovery 
of the violated Edict. But they may rather be said to have 
adjourned to the cemeteries. The frequent meetings of Tor- 
quatus with his two heathen confederates in the baths of 
Caracalla had been narrowly watched by the capsarius and his 
wife, as we have already remarked; and Victoria had overheard 

1 When the Vatican cemetery was explored in 1571, there were found 
in tombs two small square golden boxes, with a ring at the top of the lid. 
These very ancient sacred vessels are considered by Bottari to have been 
used for carrying the Blessed Eucharist round the neck ( Roma Subterranea , 
tom. i. fig. 1 1 ) ; and Pellicia confirms this by many arguments (Christiana 
Eccl. Politia > tom. iii. p. 20). 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 85 

the plot to make an inroad into the cemetery of Callistus on 
the day after publication. The Christians, therefore, considered 
themselves safer the first day, and took advantage of the cir- 
cumstance to inaugurate, by solemn offices, the churches of the 
catacombs, which, after some years’ disuse, had been put into 
good repair and order by the fossores , had been in some places 
repainted, and furnished with all requisites for divine worship. 

But Corvinus, after getting over his first dismay, and having 
as speedily as possible another, though not so grand, a copy of 
the Edict affixed, began better to see the dismal probabilities of 
serious consequences from the wrath of his imperial master. 
The Dacian was right ; he would have to answer for the loss. 
He felt it necessary to do something that very day which might 
wipe off the disgrace he had incurred, before again meeting the 
emperor’s look. He determined to anticipate the attack on 
the cemetery, intended for the following day. 

He repaired, therefore, while it was still early, to the baths, 
where Fulvius, ever jealously watchful over Torquatus, kept 
him in expectation of Corvinus’s coming to hold council with 
them. The worthy trio concerted their plans. Corvinus, 
guided by the reluctant apostate, at the head of a chosen band 
of soldiers who were at his disposal, had to make an incursion 
into the cemetery of Callistus, and drive or drag thence the 
clergy and principal Christians ; while Fulvius, remaining out- 
side with another company, would intercept them and cut off 
all retreat, securing the most important prizes, and especially 
the Pontiff and superior clergy, whom his visit to the ordina- 
tion would enable him to recognise. This was his plan. “ Let 
fools,” he said to himself, “ act the part of ferrets in the warren, 
I will be the sportsman outside.” 

In the meantime Victoria overheard sufficient to make her 
very busy dusting and cleaning in the retired room where they 
were consulting, without appearing to listen. She told all to 
Cucumio ; and he, after much scratching of his head, hit upon 
a notable plan for conveying the discovered information to the 
proper quarter. 

Sebastian, after his early attendance on divine worship, un- 
able, from his duties at the palace, to do more, had proceeded, 
according to almost universal custom, to the baths, to invigorate 
his limbs by their healthy refreshment, and also to remove from 
himself the suspicion which his absence on that morning might 
have excited. While he was thus engaged, the old capsararius , 
as he had had himself rattlingly called in his ante-posthumous 
inscription, wrote on a slip of parchment all that his wife had 


1 86 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


heard about the intention of an immediate assault, and of 
getting possession of the holy Pontiff’s person. This he fas- 
tened with a pin or needle to the inside of Sebastian’s tunic, 
of which he had charge, as he durst not speak to him in the 
presence of others. 

The officer, after his bath, went into the hall where the 
events of the morning were being discussed, and where Fulvius 
was waiting, till Corvinus should tell him that all was ready. 
Upon going out, disgusted, he felt himself, as he walked, 
pricked by something on his chest ; he examined his garments, 
and found the paper. It was written in about as elegant a 
latinity as Cucumio’s epitaph, but he made it out sufficiently 
to consider it necessary for him to turn his steps towards the 
Via Appia instead of the Palatine, and convey the important 
information to the Christians assembled in the cemetery. 

Having, however, found a fleeter and surer messenger than 
himself in the poor blind girl, who would not attract the same 
attention, he stopped her, gave her the note, after adding a few 
words to it with the pen and ink which he carried, and bade her 
bear it as speedily as possible to its destination. But, in fact, 
he had hardly left the baths when Fulvius received information 
that Corvinus and his troop were by that time hastening across 
the fields, so as to avoid suspicion, towards the appointed spot. 
He mounted his horse immediately, and went along the high- 
road ; while the Christian soldier, in a byway, was instructing 
his blind messenger. 

When we accompanied Diogenes and his party through the 
catacombs, we stopped short of the subterranean church, because 
Severus would not let it be betrayed to Torquatus. In this 
the Christian congregation was now assembled, under its chief 
pastor. It was contructed on the principle common to all such 
excavations, for we can hardly call them edifices. 

The reader may imagine two of the cubicula or chambers, 
which we have before described, placed one on each side of a 
gallery or passage, so that their doors, or rather wide entrances, 
are opposite one another. At the end of one will be found an 
arcosolium or altar-tomb : and the probable conjecture is, that 
in this division the men under charge of the ostiarii} and in 
the other the women, under the care of the deaconesses, were 
assembled. This division of the sexes at divine worship was a 
matter of jealous discipline in the early Church. 

Often these subterranean churches were not devoid of architec- 
tural decoration. The walls, especially near the altar, were plas- 

1 Door-keepers, — an office constituting a lesser order in the Church. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


187 

teredand painted, and half-columns, with their bases and capitals, 
not ungracefully cut out of the sandstone, divided the different 
parts or ornamented the entrances. In one instance, indeed, 
in the chief basilica yet discovered in the cemetery of Callistus, 
there is a chamber without any altar, 
communicating with the church by 
means of a funnel-shaped opening, 
piercing the earthen wall, here some 
twelve feet thick, and entering the 
chamber, which is at a lower level, 
at the height of five or six feet, in a 
slanting direction ; so that all that 
was spoken in the church could be 
heard, yet nothing that was done 
there could be seen, by those as- 
sembled in the chamber. This is 
very naturally supposed to have 
been the place reserved for the class 
of public penitents called audientes 
or hearers, and for the catechumens, 
not yet initiated by baptism. 

The basilica, in which the Chris- 
tians were assembled, when Sebas- 
tian sent his message, was like the 
one discovered in the cemetery of 
St. Agnes. Each of the two divi- 
sions was double, that is, consisted 
of two large chambers, slightly 
separated by half-columns, in what 
we may call the women’s church, 
and by flat pilasters in the men’s, 
one of these surfaces having in it 
a small niche for an image or lamp. 

But the most remarkable feature of 
this basilica is a further prolonga- 
tion of the structure, so as to give 
it a chancel or presbytery. This 
is about the size of half each other 
division, from which it is separated 
by two columns against the wall, as 
well as by its lesser height, after the 
manner of modern chancels. For 
while each portion of each division has first a lofty arched 
tomb in its wall, and four or five tiers of graves above it, the 



Plan of Subterranean Church 
in the Cemetery of St. Agnes. 

A. Choir, or chancel, with episcopal 

chair (a) and benches for the 
clergy (bb). 

B. I}ivision for the men, separated 
from the choir by two pillars, 
supporting an arch. 

C. Corridor of the catacomb, afford- 

ing entrance to the church. _ 

D. Division for the women, with a 
tomb in it. 

Each portion is subdivided by pro- 
jections in the wall. 


1 88 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

elevation of the chancel is not much greater than that of those 
arcosolia or altar-tombs. At the end of the chancel, against 
the middle of the wall, is a chair with back and arms cut out 
of the solid stone, and from each side proceeds a stone bench, 
which thus occupies the end and two sides of the chancel. As 
the table of the arched tomb behind the chair is higher than 
the back of the throne, and as this is immovable, it is clear 
that the Divine Mysteries could not have been celebrated upon 
it. A portable altar must, therefore, have been placed before 
the throne, in an isolated position in the middle of the sanctuary ; 
and this, tradition tells us, was the wooden altar of St. Peter. 

We have thus the exact arrangements to be found in the 
churches built after the peace, and yet to be seen in all the 
ancient basilicas in Rome — the episcopal chair in the centre of 
the apse, the presbytery or seat for the clergy on either hand, 
and the altar between the throne and the people. The early 
Christians thus anticipated underground, or rather gave the prin- 
ciples which directed, the forms of ecclesiastical architecture. 

It was in such a basilica, then, that we are to imagine the 
faithful assembled, when Corvinus and his satellites arrived at 
the entrance of the cemetery. This was the way which Tor- 
quatus knew, leading down by steps from a half-ruinous build- 
ing, choked up with faggots. They found the coast clear, and 
immediately made their arrangements. Fulvius, with one 
body of ten or twelve men, lurked to guard the entrance, and 
seize all who attempted to come out or go in. Corvinus, with 
Torquatus and a smaller body of eight, prepared to descend. 

“I don’t like this underground work,” said an old, grey- 
bearded legionary. “I am a soldier, and not a rat-catcher. 
Bring me my man into the light of day, and I will fight him 
hand to hand, and foot to foot ; but I have no love for being 
stifled or poisoned, like vermin in a drain.” 

This speech found favour with the soldiers. One said, 
“ There may be hundreds of these skulking Christians down 
there, and we are little more than half a dozen.” 

“This is not the sort of work we receive our pay for,” added 
another. 

“ It’s their sorceries I care for,” continued a third, “ and not 
their valour.” 

It required all the eloquence of Fulvius to screw up their 
resolution. He assured them there was nothing to fear ; that 
the cowardly Christians would run before them like hares, and 
that they would find more gold and silver in the church than 
a year’s pay would give them. Thus encouraged, they went 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS I §9 

groping down to the bottom of the stairs. They could dis- 
tinguish lamps at intervals, stretching into the gloomy length 
before them. 

“ Hush ! ” said one, “ listen to that voice ! ” 

From far away its accents came, softened by distance, but 
they were the notes of a fresh youthful voice, that quailed not 
with fear ; so clear, that the very words could be caught, as it 
intoned the following verses — 

“Dominus illuminatio mea, et salus mea; quern timebo? 
Dominus protector vitae meae ; a quo trepidabo ? ” 1 

Then came a full chorus of voices, singing, like the sound of 
many waters— 

“Dum appropriant super me nocentes, ut edant carnes 
meas; qui tribulant me, inimici, mei, ipsi infirmati sunt et 
ceciderunt.” 2 

A mixture of shame and anger seized on the assailants as 
'they heard these words of calm confidence and defiance. The 
single voice again sang forth, but in apparently fainter accents — 

“ Si consistant adversum me castra, non timebitcor meum .” 3 

“I thought I knew that voice/’ muttered Corvinus. “I 
ought to know it out of a thousand. It is that of my bane, the 
cause of all last night’s curse and this day’s trouble. It is that 
of Pancratius, who pulled down the Edict. On, on, my men ; 
any reward for him, dead or alive ! ” 

“ But stop,” said one, “let us light our torches.” 

“ Hark ! ” said a second, while they were engaged in this 
operation; “what is that strange noise, as if of scratching and 
hammering at a distance? I have heard it for some time.” 

“ And look ! ” added a third ; “ the distant lights have dis- 
appeared, and the music has ceased. We are certainly dis- 
covered.” 

“No danger,” said Torquatus, putting on a boldness which 
he did not feel. “That noise only comes from those old 
moles, Diogenes and his sons, busy preparing graves for the 
Christians we shall seize.” 

Torquatus had in vain advised the troop not to bring 
torches, but to provide themselves with such lamps as we see 
Diogenes represented carrying in his picture, or waxen tapers, 

1 i( The Lord is my light and my salvation : whom shall I fear ? The 
Lord is the protector of my life : of whom shall I be afraid ? ” 

* “ While the wicked draw nigh me, to eat my flesh, my enemies that 
trouble me have themselves been weakened and have fallen.” 

3 “ If armies in camp shall stand together against me, my heart shall not 
fear.”— Ps. xxvi. 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


190 

which he had brought for himself ; but the men swore they 
would not go down without plenty of light, and such means 
for it as could not be put out by a draught of wind or a stroke 
on the arm. The effects were soon obvious. As they ad- 
vanced, silently and cautiously, along the low narrow gallery, the 
resinous torches crackled and hissed with a fierce glare, which 
heated and annoyed them, while a volume of thick pitchy 
smoke from each rolled downwards on to the bearers from the 
roof, half stifled them, and made a dense atmosphere of cloud 
around themselves, which effectually dimmed their light. Tor- 
quatus kept at the head of the party, counting every turning 
right and left, as he had noted them ; though he found every 
mark which he had made carefully removed. He was staggered 
and baulked when, after having counted little more than half 
the proper number, he found the road completely blocked up. 

The fact was, that keener eyes than he was aware of had 
been on the look-out. Severus had never relaxed his watch- 
fulness, determined not to be surprised. He was near the 
entrance to the cemetery below, when the soldiers reached it 
above, and he ran forward at once to the place where the sand 
had been prepared for closing the road, near which his brother 
and several other stout workmen were stationed in case of 
danger. In a moment, with that silence and rapidity to which 
they were trained, they set to work lustily, shovelling the sand 
across the narrow and low corridor from each side, while well- 
directed blows of the pick brought from the low roof behind 
huge flakes of sandstone which closed up the opening. Be- 
hind this barrier they stood, hardly suppressing a laugh as they 
heard their enemies through its loose separation. Their work 
it was which had been heard, and which had screened off the 
lights and deadened the song. 

Torquatus’s perplexity was not diminished by the volley of 
oaths and imprecations and the threats of violence which were 
showered upon him for a fool or a traitor. “ Stay one moment, 
I entreat you,” he said ; “ it is possible I have mistaken my 
reckoning. I know the right turn by a remarkable tomb a 
few yards within it. I will just step into one or two of the last 
corridors and see.” 

With these words, he ran back to the next gallery on the 
left, advanced a few paces, and totally disappeared. 

Though his companions had followed him to the very mouth 
of the gallery, they could not see how this happened. It ap- 
peared like witchcraft, in which they were quite ready to believe. 
His light and himself seemed to have vanished at once. “ We 



“ ‘ Here it goes ! ’ and he thrust it into the blazing fire.”— Page 175. 


















































































THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


191 

will have no more of this work,” they said ; “ either Torquatus 
is a traitor, or he has been carried off by magic.” Worried, 
heated in the close atmosphere almost inflamed by their lights, 
begrimed, blinded, and choked by the pitchy smoke, crest- 
fallen and disheartened, they turned back; and since their 
road led straight to the entrance, they flung away their blazing 
torches into the side galleries, one here and one there, as they 
passed by, to get rid of them. When they looked back, it 
seemed as if a triumphal illumination was kindling up the very 
atmosphere of the gloomy corridor. From the mouths of the 
various caverns came forth a fiery light which turned the dull 
sandstone into a bright crimson, while the volumes of smoke 
above hung like amber clouds along the whole gallery. The 
sealed tombs receiving the unusual reflection on their yellow 
tiles, or marble slabs, appeared covered with golden or silver 
plates, set in the red damask of the walls. It looked like a 
homage paid to martyrdom by the very furies of heathenism 
on the first day of persecution. The torches which they had 
kindled to destroy, only served to shed brightness on monu- 
ments of that virtue which had never failed to save the Church. 

But before these foiled hounds with drooping heads had 
reached the entrance, they recoiled before the sight of a singu- 
lar apparition. At first they thought they had caught a glimpse 
of daylight ; but they soon perceived it was the glimmering of 
a lamp. This was held steadily by an upright immovable 
figure, which thus received its light upon itself. It was clothed 
in a dark dress, so as to resemble one of those bronze statues 
which have the head and extremities of white marble, and 
startle one when first seen, so like are they to living forms. 

“ Who can it be ? What is it ? ” the men whispered to one 
another. 

“ A sorceress,” replied one. 

“ The genius loci” 1 observed another. 

“A spirit,” suggested a third. 

Still, as they approached stealthily towards it, it did not 
appear conscious of their presence : “ there was no speculation 
in its eyes;” it remained unmoved and unsdared. At length, 
two got sufficiently near to seize the figure by its arms, 

“Who are you?” asked Corvinus, in a rage. 

“A Christian,” answered Csecilia, with her usual cheerful 
gentleness. 

“Bring her along,” he commanded; “some one at least 
shall pay for our disappointment.” 

1 The guardian genius of the place. 


192 


fabiola; or, 


CHAPTER XVII 

THE FIRST FLOWER 

Oecilia, already forewarned, had approached the cemetery by 
a different, but neighbouring entrance. No sooner had she 
descended than she snuffed the strong odour of the torches. 
“ This is none of our incense, I know,” she said to herself ; 
“the enemy is already within.” She hastened therefore to the 
place of assembly, and delivered Sebastian’s note, adding also 
what she had observed. It warned them to disperse and seek 
the shelter of the inner and lower galleries ; and begged of the 
Pontiff not to leave till he should send for him, as his person 
was particularly sought for. 

Pancratius urged the blind messenger to save herself too. 
“No,” she replied, “my office is to watch the door, and guide 
the faithful safe.” 

“ But the enemy may seize you.” 

“ No matter,” she answered, laughing ; “ my being taken may 
save much worthier lives. Give me a lamp, Pancratius.” 

“ Why, you cannot see by it,” observed he, smiling. 

“True; but others can.” 

“They may be your enemies.” 

“Even so,” she answered, “I do not wish to be taken in 
the dark. If my Bridegroom come to me in the night of this 
cemetery, must He not find me with my lamp trimmed ? ” 

Off she started, reached her post, and hearing no noise except 
that of quiet footsteps, she thought they were those of friends, 
and held up her lamp to guide them. 

When the party came forth, with their only captive, Fulvius 
was perfectly furious. It was worse than a total failure ; it was 
ridiculous — a poor mouse come out of the bowels of the earth. 
He rallied Corvinus till the wretch winced and foamed ; then 
suddenly he asked, “ And where is Torquatus } ” He heard the 
account of his sudden disappearance, told in as many ways as 
the Dacian guard’s adventure ; but it annoyed him greatly. He 
had no doubt whatever, in his own mind, that he had been 
duped by his supposed victim, who had escaped into the un- 
searchable mazes of the cemetery. If so, this captive would 
know, and he determined to question her. He stood before her, 
therefore, put on his most searching and awful look, and said to 
her sternly, “Look at me, woman, and tell me the truth.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


193 


“I must tell you the truth without looking at you, sir,” 
answered the poor girl, with her cheerfullest smile and softest 
voice ; “ do you not see that I am blind ? ” 

“ Blind ! ” all exclaimed at once, as they crowded to look at 
her. But over the features of Fulvius there passed the slightest 
possible emotion, just as much as the wave that runs, pursued 
by a playful breeze, over the ripe meadow. A knowledge had 
flashed into his mind, a clue had fallen into his hand. 

“It will be ridiculous,” he said, “for twenty soldiers to 
march through the city guarding a blind girl. Return to your 
quarters, and I will see you are well rewarded. You, Corvinus, 
take my horse, and go before to your father, and tell him all. 
I will follow in a carriage with the captive.” 

“ No treachery, Fulvius,” he said, vexed and mortified. 
“Mind you bring her. The day must not pass without a 
sacrifice.” 

“ Do not fear,” was the reply. 

Fulvius, indeed, was pondering whether, having lost one spy, 
he should not try to make another. But the placid gentleness 
of the poor beggar perplexed him more than the boisterous zeal 
of the gamester, and her sightless orbs defied him more than 
the restless roll of the toper’s. Still, the first thought that had 
struck him he could yet pursue. When alone in a carriage 
with her, he assumed a soothing tone, and addressed her. He 
fcnew she had not overheard the last dialogue. 

“My poor girl,” he said, “how long have you been blind?” 

“All my life,” she replied. 

“What is your history? Whence do you come?” 

“ I have no history. My parents were poor, and brought 
me to Rome when I was four years old, as they came to pray, 
in discharge of a vow made for my life in early sickness, to the 
blessed martyrs Chrysanthus and Daria. They left me in 
charge of a pious lame woman, at the door of the title of 
Fasciola, while they went to their devotions. It was on that 
memorable day, when many Christians were buried at their 
tomb, by earth and stones cast down upon them. My parents 
had the happiness to be of the number.” 

“ And how have you lived since ? ” 

“God became my only Father then, and His Catholic 
Church my mother. The one feeds the birds of the air, the 
other nurses the weaklings of the flock. I have never wanted 
for anything since.” 

“ But you can walk about the siteets freely, and without fear, 
as well as if you saw.” 


N 


194 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


“ How do you know that ? ” 

“ I have seen you. Do you remember very early one morn- 
ing in the autumn leading a poor lame man along the Vicus 
Patricius ? ” 

She blushed and remained silent. Could he have seen her 
put into the poor old man’s purse her own share of the alms ? 

“You have owned yourself a Christian?” he asked negli- 
gently. 

“ Oh yes ! how could I deny it ? ” 

“ Then that meeting was a Christian meeting ? ” 

“ Certainly ; what else could it be ? ” 

He wanted no more ; his suspicions were verified. Agnes, 
about whom Torquatus had been able or willing to tell him 
nothing, was certainly a Christian. His game was made. She 
must yield, or he would be avenged. 

After a pause, looking at her steadfastly, he said, “ Do you 
know whither you are going ? ” 

“ Before the judge of earth, I suppose, who will send me to 
my Spouse in heaven.” 

“And so calmly?” he asked in surprise; for he could see 
no token from the soul to the countenance, but a smile. 

“So joyfully rather,” was her brief reply. 

Having got all that he desired, he consigned his prisoner to 
Corvinus at the gates of the Tamilian basilica, and left her to 
her fate. It had been a cold and drizzling day, like the pre- 
ceding evening. The weather, and the incident of the night, 
had kept down all enthusiasm ; and while the Prefect had been 
compelled to sit indoors, where no great crowd could collect, 
as hours had passed away without any arrest, trial, or tidings, 
most of the curious had left, and only a few more persevering 
remained, past the hour of afternoon recreation in the public 
gardens. But just before the captive arrived, a fresh knot of 
spectators came in, and stood near one of the side doors, from 
which they could see all. 

As Corvinus had prepared his father for what he was to 
expect, Tertullus, moved with some compassion, and imagining 
there could be little difficulty in overcoming the obstinacy of a 
poor, ignoran% blind beggar, requested the spectators to remain 
perfectly still, that he might try his persuasion on her, alone, as 
she would imagine, with him ; and he threatened heavy penalties 
on any one who should presume to break the silence. 

It was as he had calculated. Caecilia knew not that any one 
else was there, as the Prefect thus kindly addressed her — 

“What is thy name, child?” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 95 

“Cecilia.” 

“It is a noble name; hast thou it from thy family?” 

“No ; I am not noble ; except because my parents, though 
poor, died for Christ. As I am blind, those who took care of 
me called me Cceca} and then, out of kindness, softened it 
into Csecilia.” 

“ But now, give up all this folly of the Christians, who have 
kept thee only poor and blind. Honour the decrees of the 
divine emperors, and offer sacrifice to the gods; and thou 
shalt have riches, and fine clothes, and good fare ; and the best 
physicians shall try to restore thee thy sight.” 

“You must have better motives to propose to me than these ; 
for the very things for which I most thank God and His Divine 
Son, are those which you would have me put away.” 

“ How dost thou mean ? ” 

“ I thank God that I am poor and meanly clad, and fare 
not daintily ; because by all these things I am the more like 
Jesus Christ, my only Spouse.” 

“Foolish girl!” interrupted the judge, losing patience a 
little ; “ hast thou learnt all these silly delusions already ? at 
least thou canst not thank thy God that He has made thee 
sightless.” 

M For that, more than all the rest, I thank Him daily and 
hourly with all my heart.” 

“ How so ? dost thou think it a blessing never to have seen 
the face of a human being, or the sun, or the earth ? What 
strange fancies are these ? ” 

“ They are not so, most noble sir. For in the midst of what 
you call darkness, I see a spot of what I must call light, it 
contrasts so strongly with all around. It is to me what the 
sun is to you, which I know to be local from the varying direc- 
tion of its rays. And this object looks upon me as with a 
countenance of intensest beauty, and smiles upon me ever. 
And I know it to be that of Him whom I love with undivided 
affection. I would not for the world have its splendour dimmed 
by a brighter sun, nor its wondrous loveliness confounded with 
the diversities of others’ features, nor my gaze on it drawn aside 
by earthly visions. I love Him too much, not jto wish to see 
Him always alone.” 

“ Come, come ! let me have no more of this silly prattle. 
Obey the emperors at once, or I must try what a little pain 
will do. That will soon tame thee.” 


1 Blind. 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


196 

“Pain?” she echoed innocently. 

“Yes, pain. Hast thou never felt it? hast thou never been 
hurt by any one in thy life ? ” 

“ Oh no ! Christians never hurt one another.” 

The rack was standing, as usual, before him ; and he made 
a sign to Catulus to place her upon it. The executioner pushed 
her back on it by her arms ; and as she made no resistance, 
she was easily laid extended on its wooden couch. The loops 
of the ever-ready ropes were in a moment passed round her 
ankles, and arms drawn over the head. The poor sightless 
girl saw not who did all this ; she knew not but it might be 
the same person who had been conversing with her. If there 
had been silence hitherto, men now held their very breath; 
while Caecilia’s lips moved in earnest prayer. 

“ Once more, before proceeding further, I call on thee to 
sacrifice to the'gods, and escape cruel torments,” said the judge, 
with a sterner voice. 

“ Neither torments nor death,” firmly replied the victim tied 
to the altar, “ shall separate me from the love of Christ. I can 
offer up no sacrifice but to the one living God ; and its ready 
oblation is myself.” 

The Prefect made a signal to the executioner, and he gave 
one rapid whirl to the two wheels of the rack, round the wind- 
lasses of which the ropes were wound ; and the limbs of the 
maiden were stretched with a sudden jerk, which, though not 
enough to wrench them from their sockets, as a further turn 
would have done, sufficed to inflict an excruciating, or more 
truly, a racking pain, through, all her frame. Far more grievous 
was this, from the preparation and the cause of it being unseen, 
and from that additional suffering which darkness inflicts. A 
quivering of her features, and a sudden paleness, alone gave 
evidence of her torture. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ” the judge exclaimed, “ thou feelest that ? Come, 
let it suffice ; obey, and thou shalt be freed.” 

She seemed to take no heed of his words, but gave vent to 
her feelings in prayer: “I thank Thee, O Lord Jesus Christ, 
that Thou hast made me suffer pain the first time for Thy sake. 
I have loved Thee in peace ; I have loved Thee in comfort ; I 
have loved Thee in joy; and now in pain I love Thee still 
more. How much sweeter it is to be like Thee, stretched 
upon Thy Cross, even than resting upon the hard couch at the 
poor man's table ! ” 

“Thou triflest with me,” exclaimed the judge, thoroughly 
vexed, “ and makest light of my lenity. We will try something 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 97 

stronger. Here, Catulus, apply a lighted torch to her 
sides .” 1 

A thrill of disgust and horror ran through the assembly, 
which could not help sympathising with the poor blind crea- 
ture. A murmur of suppressed indignation broke out from all 
sides of the hall. 

Caecilia, for the first time, learnt that she was in the midst 
of a crowd. A crimson glow of modesty rushed into her brow, 
her face, and neck, just before white as marble. The angry judge 
checked the rising gush of feeling ; and all listened in silence, 
as she spoke again, with warmer earnestness than before — 

“ O my dear Lord and Spouse ! I have been ever true and 
faithful to Thee ! Let me suffer pain and torture for Thee ; 
but spare me confusion from human eyes. Let me come to 
Thee at once ; not covering my face with my hpnds in shame, 
when I stand before Thee.” 

Another muttering of compassion was heard. 

“Catulus!” shouted the baffled judge, in fury; “do your 
duty, sirrah ! what are you about, fumbling all day with that 
torch ? ” 

The executioner advanced, and stretched forth his hand to 
her robe to withdraw it for the torture ; but he drew back, and, 
turning to the Prefect, exclaimed in softened accents, “ It is 
too late. She is dead ! ” 

“ Dead ! ” cried out Tertullus ; “ dead with one turn of the 
wheel ? Impossible ! ” 

Catulus gave the rack a turn backwards, and the body 
remained motionless. It was true ; she had passed from the 
rack to the throne, from the scowl of the judge’s countenance 
to her Spouse’s welcoming embrace. Had she breathed out 
her pure soul, as a sweet perfume, in the incense of her prayer? 
or had her heart been unable to get back its blood, from the 
intensity of that first virginal blush ? 2 

In the stillness of awe and wonder, a clear bold voice cried 
out, from the group near the door, “ Impious tyrant, dost thou 
not see, that a poor blind Christian hath more power over life 
and death than thou or thy cruel masters?” 

“ What ! a third time in twenty-four hours wilt thou dare to 
cross my path ? This time thou shalt not escape.” 

1 The rack was used for a double purpose : as a direct torment, and to 
keep the body distended for the application of other tortures. This of fire 
was one of the most common. 

2 There are many instances in the lives of martyrs of their deaths being 
the fruit of prayer, as in St. Paraxedes, St. Csecilia, St. Agatha, &c. 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


198 

These were Corvinus’s words, garnished with a furious impre- 
cation, as he rushed from his father’s side round the enclosure 
before the tribunal towards the group. But as he ran blindly 
on, he struck against an officer of herculean build, w r ho, no 
doubt, quite accidentally, was advancing from it. He reeled, 
and the soldier caught hold of him, saying, “You are not hurt, 
I hope, Corvinus ? ” 

“ No, no ; let me go, Quadratus, let me go.” 

“ Where are you running to in such a hurry ? can I help 
you ? ” asked his captor, still holding him fast. 

“ Let me loose, I say, or he will be gone.” 

“Who will be gone?” 

“ Pancratius,” answered Corvinus, “ who just now insulted 
my father.” 

“ Pancratius ? ” said Quadratus, looking round, and seeing 
that he had got clear off; “I do not see him.” And he let 
him go ; but it was too late. The youth was safe at Diogenes’s, 
in the Suburra. 

While this scene was going on, the Prefect, mortified, 
ordered Catulus to see the body thrown into the Tiber. 
But another officer, muffled in his cloak, stepped aside and 
beckoned to Catulus, who understood the sign, and stretched 
out his hand to receive a purse held out to him. 

“ Out of the Porta Capena, at Lucina’s villa, an hour after 
sunset,” said Sebastian. 

“ It shall be delivered there safe,” said the executioner. 

“ Of what do you think did that poor girl die ? ” asked a 
spectator from his companion, as they went out. 

“ Of fright, I fancy,” he replied. 

“Of Christian modesty,” interposed a stranger who passed 
them. 


CHAPTER XVIII 

RETRIBUTION 

The Prefect of the city went to give his report on the untoward 
events of the day, and do what was possible to screen his 
worthless son. He found the emperor in the worst of moods. 
Had Corvinus come in his way early in the day, nobody could 
have answered for his head. And now the result of the inroad 
into the cemetery had revived his anger, when Tertullus entered 
into the audience-chamber. Sebastian contrived to be on guard. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 1 99 

“ Where is your booby of a son ? ” was the first salutation 
which the Prefect received. 

“ Humbly waiting your divinity’s pleasure outside, and 
anxious to propitiate your godlike anger for the tricks which 
fortune has played upon his zeal.” 

“ Fortune ! ” exclaimed the tyrant ; “ fortune indeed ! His 
own stupidity and cowardice ; a pretty beginning, forsooth ; 
but he shall smart for it ; bring him in.” 

The wretch, whining and trembling, was introduced, and 
cast himself at the emperor’s feet, from which he was spurned, 
and sent rolling, like a lashed hound, into the midst of the 
hall. This set the imperial divinity a-laughing, and helped to 
mollify its wrath. 

“ Come, sirrah ! stand up,” he said, “ and let me hear an 
account of yourself. How did the Edict disappear ? ” 

Corvinus told a rambling tale, which occasionally amused 
the emperor ; for he was rather taken with the trick. This 
was a good symptom. 

“ Well,” he said at last, “ I will be merciful to you. Lictors, 
bind your fasces.” They drew their axes forth, and felt their 
edges. Corvinus again threw himself down, and exclaimed — 

“ Spare my life ; I have important information to furnish, if 
I live.” 

“Who wants your worthless life?” responded the gentle 
Maximian. “ Lictors, put aside your axes ; the rods are good 
enough for him.” 

In a moment his hands were seized and bound, his tunic 
was stripped off his shoulders, and a shower of blows fell 
upon them, delivered with well-regulated skill, till he roared 
and writhed, to the great enjoyment of his imperial master. 

Smarting and humbled, he had to stand again before him. 

“ Now, sir,” said the latter, “ what is the wonderful infor- 
mation you have to give ? ” 

“ That I know who perpetrated the outrage of last night on 
your Imperial Edict.” 

“ Who was it ?” 

“ A youth named Pancratius, whose knife I found under 
where the Edict had been cut away.” 

“And why have you not seized him and brought him to 
justice?” 

“Twice this day he has been almost within my grasp, for I 
have heard his voice ; but he has escaped me.” 

“Then let him not escape a third time, or you may have to 
take his place. But how do you know him, or his knife ? ” 


200 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


“ He was my schoolfellow at the school of Cassianus, who 
turned out to be a Christian.” 

“ A Christian presume to teach my subjects, to make them 
enemies of their country, disloyal to their sovereigns, and con- 
temners of the gods ! I suppose it was he who taught that 
young viper Pancratius to pull down our Imperial Edict. Do 
you know where he is ? ” 

“Yes, sire; Torquatus, who has abandoned the Christian 
superstition, has told me.” 

“ And pray who is this Torquatus ? ” 

“ He is one who has been staying some time with Chromatius 
and a party of Christians in the country.” 

“ Why, this is worse and worse. Is the ex-Prefect then, too, 
become a Christian ? ” 

“Yes; and lives with many others of that sect in Cam- 
pania.” 

“What perfidy! what treachery! I shall not know whom 
to trust next. Prefect, send some one immediately to arrest 
all these men, and the schoolmaster, and Torquatus.” 

“ He is no longer a Christian,” interposed the judge. 

“Well, what do I care?” replied the emperor peevishly; 
“ arrest as many as you can, and spare no one, and make them 
smart well ; do you understand me ? Now, begone all ; it is 
time for my supper.” 

Corvinus went home; and, in spite of medicinal applica- 
tions, was feverish, sore, and spiteful all night; and next 
morning begged his father to let him go on the expedition 
into Campania, that so he might retrieve his honour, gratify his 
revenge, and escape the disgrace and sarcasm that was sure to 
be heaped on him by Roman society. 

When Fulvius had deposited his prisoner at the tribunal, he 
hastened home to recount his adventures, as usual, to Eurotas. 
The old man listened with imperturbable sternness to the barren 
recital, and at last said coldly — 

“Very little profit from all this, Fulvius.” 

“No immediate profit, indeed; but a good prospect in 
view, at least.” 

“How so?” 

“ Why, the Lady Agnes is in my power. I have made sure 
at last that she is a Christian. I can now necessarily either 
win her, or destroy her. In either case her property is mine.” 

“ Take the second alternative,” said the old man, with a keen 
glow in his eye, but no change of face ; “ it is the shorter and 
less troublesome way.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 201 

“ But my honour is engaged ; I cannot allow myself to be 
spurned in the manner I told you.” 

“You have been spurned, however; and that calls for ven- 
geance. You have no time to lose, remember, in foolery. 
Your funds are nearly exhausted, and nothing is coming in. 
You must strike a blow.” 

“Surely, Eurotas, you would prefer my trying to get this 
wealth by honourable” (Eurotas smiled at the idea coming 
into either of their minds) “rather than by foul means.” 

“ Get it, get it any way, provided it be the surest and the 
speediest. You know our compact. Either the family is re- 
stored to wealth and splendour, or it ends in and with you. It 
shall never linger on in disgrace, that is, in poverty.” 

“ I know, I know, without your every day reminding me of 
the bitter condition,” said Fulvius, wringing his hands, and 
writhing in all his body. “ Give me time enough, and all will 
be well.” 

“ I give you time till all is hopeless. Things do rtot look 
bright at present. But, Fulvius, it is time that I tell you who 
I am.” 

“Why, were you not my father’s faithful dependant, to whose 
care he intrusted me ? ” 

“ I was your father’s elder brother, Fulvius, and am the head 
of the family. I have had but one thought, but one aim in 
life, the restoring of our house to that greatness and splendour 
from which my father’s negligence and prodigality had brought 
it down. Thinking that your father, my brother, had greater 
ability than myself for this work, I resigned my rights and 
gains to him upon certain terms; one of which was your 
guardianship, and the exclusive forming of your mind. You 
know how I have trained you, to care nothing about the means, 
so that our great ends be carried.” 

Fulvius, who had been riveted with amazement and deep 
attention on the speaker, shrunk into himself with shame, at 
this baring of both their hearts. The dark old man fixed his 
eyes more intently than ever, and went on. 

“You remember the black and complicated crime by which 
we concentrated in your hands the divided remnant of family 
wealth.” 

Fulvius covered his face with his hands and shuddered, then 
said entreatingly, “ Oh, spare me that, Eurotas ; for heaven’s 
sake, spare me ! ” 

“Well, then,” resumed the other, unmoved as ever, “I will 
be brief. Remember, nephew, that he who does not recoil 


202 


FABIOLA ; ORj 


from a brilliant future, to be gained by guilt, must not shrink 
from a past that prepared it by crime. For the future will one 
day be the past. Let our compact, therefore, be straightforward 
and honest ; for there is an honesty even in sin. Nature has 
given you abundance of selfishness and cunning, and she has 
given me boldness and remorselessness in directing and apply- 
ing them. Our lot is cast by the same throw, — we become 
rich or die together.” 

Fulvius in his heart cursed the day that he came to Rome, 
or bound himself to his stern master, whose mysterious tie was 
so much stronger than he had known before. But he felt him- 
self spellbound to him, and powerless as the kid in the lion’s 
paws. He retired to his couch with a heavier heart than ever ; 
for a dark, impending fate never failed to weigh upon his soul 
every returning night. 

The reader will perhaps be curious to know what has become 
of the third member of our worthy trio, the apostate Torquatus. 
When, confused and bewildered, he ran to look for the tomb 
which was to guide him, it so happened, that, just within the 
gallery which he entered, was a neglected staircase, cut in the 
sandstone, down to a lower story of the cemetery. The steps 
had been worn round and smooth, and the descent was preci- 
pitous. Torquatus, carrying his light before him, and running 
heedlessly, fell headlong down the opening, and remained 
stunned and insensible at the bottom till long after his com- 
panions had retired. He then revived; and for some time 
was so confused that he knew not where he was. He arose 
and groped about, till, consciousness completely returning, he 
remembered that he was in a catacomb, but could not make 
out how he was alone, and in the dark. It then struck him 
that he had a supply of tapers about him, and means of light- 
ing them. He employed these, and was cheered by finding 
himself again in light. But he had wandered from the stair- 
casej of which, indeed, he recollected nothing, and went on and 
on, entangling himself more inextricably in the subterranean 
labyrinth. 

He felt sure that, before he had exhausted his strength or 
his tapers, he should come to some outlet. But by degrees 
he began to feel serious alarm. One after the other his lights 
were burnt out, and his vigour began to fail, for he had been 
fasting from early morning ; and he found himself coming back 
to the same spot, after he had wandered about apparently for 
hours. At first he had looked negligently around him, and had 
carelessly read the inscriptions on the tombs. But as he grew 


TIIE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


203 


fainter, and his hope of relief weaker, these solemn monu- 
ments of death began to speak to his soul, in a language that 
it could not refuse to hear, nor pretend to misunderstand. 
“Deposited in peace” was the inmate of one; “resting in 
Christ ” was another ; and even the thousand nameless ones 
around them reposed in silent calm, each with the seal of the 
Church’s motherly care stamped upon his place of rest. And 
within, the embalmed remains awaited the sound of angelic 
trumpet-notes, to awaken them to a happy resurrection. And 
he, in a few more hours, would be dead like them ; he was 
lighting his last taper, and had sunk down upon a heap of 
mould; but would he be laid in peace, by pious hands, as 
they? On the cold ground, alone, he should die, unpitied, 
unmourned, unknown. There he should rot, and drop to 
pieces ; and if, in after years, his bones, cast out from Chris- 
tian sepulture, should be found, tradition might conjecture 
that they were the accursed remains of an apostate lost in the 
cemetery. And even they might b$ cast out, as he was, from 
the communion of that hallowed ground. 

It was coming on fast ; he could feel it ; his head reeled, his 
heart fluttered. The taper was getting too short for his fingers, 
and he placed it on a stone beside him. It might burn three 
minutes longer; but a drop filtering through the ceiling fell 
upon it, and extinguished it. So covetous did he feel of those 
three minutes more of light, so jealous was he of that little 
taper-end, as his last link with earth’s joys, so anxious was he 
to have one more look at things without, lest he should be 
forced to look at those within, that he drew forth his flint and 
steel, and laboured for a quarter of an hour to get a light from 
tinder, damped by the cold perspiration on his body. And 
when he had lighted his remnant of candle, instead of profiting 
by its flame to look around him, he fixed his eyes upon it with 
an idiotic stare, watching it burn down, as though it were the 
charm which bound his life, and this must expire with it. And 
soon the last spark gleamed smouldering like a glow-worm on 
the red earth, and died. 

Was he dead too ? he thought. Why not ? Darkness, com- 
plete and perpetual, had come upon him. He was cut off for 
ever from consort with the living, his mouth would no more 
taste food, his ears never again hear a sound, his eyes behold 
no light or thing again. He was associated with the dead, only 
his grave was much larger than theirs ; but, for all that, it was 
as dark and lonely, and closed for ever. What else is death ? 
No, it could not be death as yet. Death had to be followed 


204 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


by something else. But even this was coming. The worm was 
beginning to gnaw his conscience, and it grew apace to a viper’s 
length, and twisted itself round his heart. He tried to think of 
pleasant things, and they came before him ; the quiet hours in 
the villa with Chromatius and Polycarp, their kind words, and 
last embrace. But from the beautiful vision darted a withering 
flash ; he had betrayed them ; he had told of them ; to whom ? 
To Fulvius and Corvinus. The fatal chord was touched, like 
the tingling nerve of a tooth, that darts its agony straight to the 
centre of the brain. The drunken debauch, the dishonest play, 
the base hypocrisy, the vile treachery, the insincere apostasy, 
the remorseful sacrileges of the last days, and the murderous 
attempt of that morning, now came dancing, like demons hand 
in hand, in the dark before him, shouting, laughing, jibing, 
weeping, moaning, gnashing their teeth; and sparks of fire 
flying before his eyes, from his enfeebled brain, seemed to 
dart from glaring torches in their hands. He sunk down and 
covered his eyes. 

“ I may be dead, after all,” he said to himself ; “ for the 
infernal pit can have nothing worse than this.” 

His heart was too weak for rage ; it sunk within him in the 
impotence of despair. His strength was ebbing fast, when he 
fancied he heard a distant sound. He put away the thought ; 
but the wave of a remote harmony beat again upon his ear. 
He raised himself up ; it was becoming distinct. So sweet it 
sounded, so like a chorus of angelic voices, but in another 
sphere, that he said to himself, “Who would have thought 
that heaven was so near to hell ! Or are they accompanying 
the fearful Judge to try me?” 

And now a faint glimmer of light appeared at the same dis- 
tance as the sounds ; and the words of the strain were clearly 
heard — 

“In pace, in idipsum, dormiam et requiescam.” 1 

“ Those words are not for me. They might do at a martyr’s 
entombment ; they cannot at a reprobate’s burial.” 

The light increased ; it was like a dawn glowing into day ; 
it entered the gallery and passed across it, bearing in it, as in 
a mirror, a vision too distinct to be unreal. First, there came 
virgins robed and holding lamps ; then four who carried be- 
tween them a form wrapped up in a white linen cloth, with a 
crown of thorns upon the head ; after them the youthful acolyte 
Tarcisius bearing a censer steaming with perfumed smoke ; and, 
after others of the clergy, the venerable Pontiff himself, attended 

1 “In peace, in the self-same, I will sleep and X will rest.” — Ps. iv. 9. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 20 5 

by Reparatus, and another deacon. Diogenes and his sons, 
with sorrowful countenances, and many others, among whom 
he could distinguish Sebastian, closed the procession. As 
many bore lamps or tapers, the figures seemed to move in an 
unchanging atmosphere of mildest light. 

And as they passed before him, they chanted the next verse 
of the psalm — 

“ Quoniam Tu Domine singulariter in spe constituisti me .” 1 

“ That ,” he exclaimed, rousing himself up, “ that is for 
me.” 

With this thought he had sprung upon his knees ; and by 
an instinct of grace, words which he had before heard came 
back to him like an echo; words suited to the moment; 
words which he felt that he ?nust speak. He crept forward, 
faint and feeble, turned along the gallery through which the 
funeral procession was passing, and followed it unobserved, at 
a distance. It entered a chamber and lighted it up, so that a 
picture of the Good Shepherd looked brightly down on him. 
But he would not pass the threshold, where he stood striking 
his breast and praying for mercy. 

The body had been laid upon the ground ; and other psalms 
and hymns were sung, and prayers recited, all in that cheerful 
tone and joyous mood of hopefulness with which the Church 
has always treated of death. At length it was placed in the 
tomb prepared for it, under an arch. While this was being 
done, Torquatus drew nigh to one of the spectators, and 
whispered to him the question — 

“Whose funeral is this? 

“It is the deposition ,” he answered, “of the blessed Csecilia, 
a blind virgin, who this morning fell into the hands of the 
soldiers in this cemetery, and whose soul God took to 
Himself.” 

“Then I am her murderer,” he exclaimed, with a hollow 
moan ; and staggering forward to the holy bishop’s feet, fell 
prostrate before him. It was some time before his feelings 
could find vent in words ; when these came, they were the ones 
he had resolved to utter — 

“Father, I have sinned before heaven, and against Thee, 
and am not worthy to be called Thy child.” 

The Pontiff raised him up kindly, and pressed him to his 
bosom, saying, “Welcome back, my son, whoever thou art, 
to thy Father’s house. But thou art weak and faint, and 
needest rest.” 

1 “For Thou, O Lord, singularly hast placed me in hope.” — Ps. v. io. 


206 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


Some refreshment was immediately procured. But Tor- 
quatus would not rest till he had publicly avowed the whole of 
his guilt, including the day’s crimes ; for it was still the even- 
ing of the same day. All rejoiced at the prodigal’s return ; at 
the lost sheep’s recovery. Agnes looked up to heaven from 
her last affectionate glance on the blind virgin’s shroud, and 
thought that she could almost see her seated at the feet of her 
Spouse, smiling, with her eyes wide open, as she cast down a 
handful of flowers on the head of the penitent, the first-fruits 
of her intercession in heaven. 

Diogenes and his sons took charge of him. An humble 
lodging was procured for him in a Christian cottage near, that 
he might not be within the reach of temptation or of ven- 
geance, and he was enrolled in the class of penitents ; where 
years of expiation, shortened by the intercession of confessors 
— that is, future martyrs — would prepare him for full re-admis- 
sion to the privileges he had forfeited . 1 


CHAPTER XIX 

TWOFOLD REVENGE 

Sebastian’s visit to the cemetery had been not merely to take 
thither for sepulture the relics of the first martyr, but also to 
consult with Marcellinus about his safety. His life was too 
valuable to the Church to be sacrificed so early ; and Sebastian 
knew how eagerly it was sought. Torquatus now confirmed 
this, by communicating Fulvius’s designs, and the motive of 
his attendance at the December ordination. The usual papal 
residence was no longer safe ; and a bold idea had been adopted 
by the courageous soldier, — the “ Protector of the Christians,” 
as his Acts tell us he had been authoritatively called. It was 
to lodge the Pontiff where no one could suspect him to be, 
and where no search would be dreamt of, in the very palace 
of the Caesars . 2 Efficiently disguised, the holy bishop left the 

1 The penitentiary system of the early Church will be better described 
in any volume that embodies the antiquity of the second period of ecclesi- 
astical history, that of The Church of the Basilicas . It is well known, 
especially from the writings of St. Cyprian, that those who proved weak in 
persecution, and were subjected to public penance, obtained a shortening of 
its term, — that is, an indulgence ,— through the intercession of confessors, 
or of persons imprisoned for the faith. 

2 This is related in the Acts just referred to. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 20? 

cemetery, and, escorted by Sebastian and Quadratus, was safely 
housed in the apartments of Irene, a Christian lady of rank, 
who lived in a remote part of the Palatine, in which her hus- 
band held a household office. 

Early next morning Sebastian was with Pancratius. “My 
dear boy,” he said, “ you must leave Rome instantly, and go 
into Campania. I have horses ready for you and Quadratus ; 
and there is no time to be lost.” 

“ And why, Sebastian ? ” replied the youth, with sorrowful 
face and tearful eye. “ Have I done something wrong, or are 
you doubtful of my fortitude ? ” 

“Neither, I assure you. But you have promised to be 
guided by me in all things ; and I never considered your 
obedience more necessary than now.” 

“Tell me why, good Sebastian, I pray.” 

“ It must be a secret as yet.” 

“ What, another secret ? ” 

“ Call it the same, to be revealed at the same time. But 
I can tell you what I want you to do, and that I think will 
satisfy you. Corvinus has got orders to seize on Chromatius 
and all his community, yet young in the faith, as the wretched 
example of Torquatus has shown us ; and, what is worse, to 
put your old master Cassianus at Fundi to a cruel death. I 
want you to hasten before his messenger (perhaps he may go 
himself), and put them on their guard. 

Pancratius looked up brightly again ; he saw that Sebastian 
trusted him. “Your wish is enough reason for me,” said he, 
smiling ; “ but I would go to the world’s end to save my good 
Cassianus or any other fellow-Christians.” 

He was soon ready, took an affectionate leave of his mother ; 
and before Rome had fully shaken off sleep, he and Quadratus, 
each with well-furnished saddle-bags on their powerful steeds, 
were trotting across the campagna of Rome, to reach the less 
frequented and safer track on the Latin way. 

Corvinus having resolved to keep the hostile expedition in 
his own hands, as honourable, lucrative, and pleasant, it was 
delayed a couple of days, both that he might feel more com- 
fortable about his shoulders, and that he might make proper 
preparations. He had a chariot hired, and engaged a body of 
Numidian runners, who could keep up with a carriage at full 
speed. But he was thus two days behind our Christians, 
though he, of course, travelled by the shorter and more beaten 
Appian road. 

When Pancratius arrived at the Villa of Statues, he found 


208 fabiola ; or, 

the little community already excited by the rumours which 
had reached it of the Edict’s publication. He was welcomed 
most warmly by all ; and Sebastian’s letter of advice was re- 
ceived with deep respect. Prayer and deliberation succeeded 
its perusal, and various resolutions were taken. Marcus and 
Marcellianus, with their father Tranquillinus, had already gone 
to Rome for the ordination. Nicostratus, Zoe, and others fol- 
lowed them now. Chromatius, who was not destined for the 
crown of martyrdom, though commemorated by the Church, 
with his son, on the nth of August, found shelter for a time 
in Fabiola’s villa, for which letters had been procured from its 
mistress, without her knowing the reason why ; for he wished 
to remain in the neighbourhood a little while longer. In fine, 
the villa ad Statuas was left in charge of a few faithful servants, 
fully to be depended upon. 

When the two messengers had given themselves and their 
horses a good rest, they travelled, by the same road as Torquatus 
had lately trodden, to Fundi, where they put up at an obscure 
inn out of the town, on the Roman road. Pancratius soon 
found out his old master, who embraced him most affectionately. 
He told him his errand, and entreated him to fly, or at least 
conceal himself. 

“No,” said the good man, “it must not be. I am already 
old, and I am weary of my unprofitable profession. I and my 
servant are the only two Christians in the town. The best fami- 
lies have, indeed, sent their children to my school, because they 
knew it would be kept as moral as paganism will permit ; but 
I have not a friend among my scholars, by reason of this very 
strictness. And they want even the natural refinement of 
Roman heathens. They are rude provincials ; and I believe 
there are some among the elder ones who would not scruple 
to take my life if they could do so with impunity.” 

“What a wretched existence indeed, Cassianus, you must 
be leading ! Have you made no impression on them ? ” 

“ Little or none, dear Pancratius. And how can I, while I 
am obliged to make them read those dangerous books, full of 
fables, which Roman and Greek literature contain ? No, I 
have done little by my words ; perhaps my death may do more 
for them.” 

Pancratius found all expostulation vain, and would have 
almost joined him in his resolution to die ; only he had pro- 
mised Sebastian not to expose his life during the journey. 
He, however, determined to remain about the town till he 
saw the' end. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


209 


Corvinus arrived with his men at the villa of Chromatius ; 
and early in the morning, rushed suddenly through the gates, 
and to the house. He found it empty. He searched it through 
and through, but discovered neither a person, a book, nor a 
symbol of Christianity. He was confounded and annoyed. 
He looked about, and having found a servant working in the 
garden, asked him where his master was. 

“Master no tell slave where he go,” was the reply, in a 
latinity corresponding to such a rude phraseology. 

“You are trifling with me. Which way did he and his 
companions go ? ” 

“ Through yonder gate.” 

“And then? ” 

“ Look that way,” answered the servant. “You see gate? 
very well, you see no more. Me work here, me see gate, me 
see no more.” 

“When did they go ? at least you can answer that.” 

“ After the two come from Rome.” 

“ What two ? Always two, it seems.” 

“One good youth, very handsome, sing so sweet. The 
other very big, very strong, oh, very. See that young tree 
pulled up by the roots ? He do that as easy as me pull my 
spade out of the ground.” 

“The very two,” exclaimed Corvinus, thoroughly enraged. 
“ Again that dastardly boy has marred my plans and destroyed 
my hopes. He shall suffer well for it.” 

As soon as he was a little rested he resumed his journey, 
and determined to vent all his fury on his old master ; unless, 
indeed, he whom he considered his evil genius, should have 
been there before him. He was engaged during his journey 
in plotting vengeance upon master and fellow-student, and 
he was delighted to find that -one at least was at Fundi when 
he arrived. He showed the governor his order for the arrest 
and punishment of Cassianus as a most dangerous Christian ; 
but that officer, a humane man, remarked that the commis- 
sion superseded ordinary jurisdiction in the matter, and gave 
Corvinus full power to act. He offered him the assistance 
of an executioner and other requisites, but they were declined. 
Corvinus had brought an abundant supply of strength and 
cruelty in his own body-guard. He took, however, a public 
officer with him. 

He proceeded to the school-house when filled with scholars, 
shut the doors, and reproached Cassianus, who advanced with 
open hand and countenance to greet him, as a conspirator 

o 


210 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


against the state and a perfidious Christian. A shout arose 
from the boyish mob, and by its tone, and by the look which 
he cast around, Corvinus learnt there were many present like 
himself — young bears’ cubs with full-grown hyaenas’ hearts 
within them. 

“Boys !” he shouted out, “do you love your master Cassi- 
anus ? He was once mine too, and I owe him many a grudge.” 

A yell of execration broke out from the benches. 

“ Then I have good news for you ; here is permission from 
the divine Emperor Maximian, for you to do what you like 
to him.” 

A shower of books, writing-tablets, and other school missiles 
was directed against the master, who stood unmoved, with his 
arms folded, before his persecutor. Then came a rush from 
all sides, with menacing attitudes of a brutal onslaught. 

“Stop, stop,” cried out Corvinus, “we must go more syste- 
matically to work than this.” 

He had reverted in thought to the recollection of his own 
sweet school-boy days ; that time which most look back on 
from hearts teeming with softer feelings, than the contem- 
plation of present things can suggest. He indulged in the 
reminiscence of that early season in which others find but 
the picture of unselfish, joyous, happy hours; and he sought 
in the recollection what would most have gratified him then, 
that he might bestow it as a boon on the hopeful youths 
around him. But he could think of nothing that would have 
been such a treat to him, as to pay back to his master every 
stroke of correction, and write in blood upon him every word 
of reproach, that he had received. Delightful thought, now 
to be fulfilled ! 

It is far from our intention to harrow the feelings of our 
gentle readers by descriptions of the cruel and fiendish tor- 
ments inflicted by the heathen persecutors on our Christian 
forefathers. Few are more horrible, yet few better authenti- 
cated, than the torture practised on the martyr Cassianus. 
Placed, bound, in the midst of his ferocious young tigers, he 
was left to be the lingering victim of their feeble cruelty. 
Some, as the Christian poet Prudentius tells us, cut their tasks 
upon him with the steel points, used in engraving writing on 
wax-covered tablets ; others exercised the ingenuity of a pre- 
cocious brutality, by inflicting every possible torment on his 
lacerated body. Loss of blood and acute pain at length 
exhausted him ; and he fell on the floor, without power to rise. 
A shout of exultation followed, new insults were inflicted, and 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 21 I 

the troop of youthful demons broke loose, to tell the story of 
their sport at their respective homes. To give Christians decent 
burial never entered into the minds of their persecutors; and 
Corvinus, who had glutted his eyes with the spectacle of his 
vengeance, and had urged on the first efforts at cruelty of his 
ready instruments, left the expiring man where he lay, to die, 
unnoticed. His faithful servant, however, raised him up, and 
laid him on his bed, and sent a token, as he had preconcerted, 
to Pancratius, who was soon at his side, while his companion 
looked after preparations for their departure. The youth was 
horrified at what he beheld, and at the recital of his old 
master’s exquisite torture, as he was edified by the account of 
his patience. For not a word of reproach had escaped him, 
and prayer alone had occupied his thoughts and tongue. 

Cassianus recognised his dear pupil, smiled upon him, pressed 
his hand in his own, but could not speak. After lingering till 
morning, he placidly expired* The last rites of Christian 
sepulture were modestly paid to him on the spot, for the house 
was his ; and Pancratius hurried from the scene, with a heavy 
heart and a no slight rising of his indignation, against the heart- 
less savage who had devised and witnessed, without remorse, 
such a tragedy. 

He was mistaken, however. No sooner was his revenge 
fulfilled than Corvinus felt all the disgrace and shame of what 
he had done ; he. feared it should be known to his father, who 
had always esteemed Cassianus ; he feared the anger of the 
parents, whose children he had that day effectually demoralised, 
and fleshed to little less than parricide. He ordered his horses 
to be harnessed, but was told they must have some more hours’ 
rest. This increased his displeasure ; remorse tormented him, 
and he sat down to drink, and so drown care and pass time. 
At length he started on his journey, and after baiting for an 
hour or two, pushed on through the night. The road was 
heavy from continued rain, and ran along the side of the great 
canal which drains the Pontine marshes, and between two rows 
of trees. 

Corvinus had drunk again at his halt, and was heated with 
wine, vexation, and remorse. The dragging pace of his jaded 
steeds provoked him, and he kept lashing them furiously on. 
While they were thus excited, they heard the tramp of horses 
coming fast on behind, and dashed forward at an uncontrollable 
speed. The attendants were soon left at a distance, and the 
frightened horses passed between the trees on to the narrow 
path by the canal, and galloped forward, rocking the chariot 


212 


fabiola; or, 


from side to side at a reckless rate. The horsemen behind 
hearing the violent rush of hoofs and wheels, and the shout of 
the followers, clapped spurs to their horses, and pushed gal- 
lantly forward. They had passed the runners some way, when 
they heard a crash and a plunge. The wheel had struck the 
trunk of a tree, the chariot had turned over, and its half-drunken 
driver had been tossed head over heels into the water. In a 
moment Pancratius was off his horse and by the side of the 
canal, together with his companion. 

By the faint light of the rising moon, and by the sound of 
his voice, the youth recognised Corvinus struggling in the 
muddy stream. The side was not deep, but the high clayey 
bank was wet and slimy, and every time he attempted to climb 
it his foot slipped, and he fell back into the deep water in the 
middle. He was, in fact, already becoming benumbed and 
exhausted by his wintry bath. 

11 It would serve him right to leave him there,” muttered the 
rough centurion. 

“ Hush, Quadratus ! how can you say so ? give me hold of 
your hand. So,” said the youth, leaning over the bank, and 
seizing his enemy by his arm, just as he was relaxing his hold 
on a withered shrub, and falling back fainting into the stream. 
It would have been his last plunge. They pulled him cut and 
laid him on the road, a pitiable figure for his greatest foe. 
They chafed his temples and hands ; and he had begun to 
revive, when his attendants came up. To their care they con- 
signed him, together with his purse, which had fallen from his 
belt as they drew him from the canal. But Pancratius took 
possession of his own pen-knife, which dropped out with it, and 
which Corvinus carried about him as evidence to convict him 
of having cut down the Edict. The servants pretended to Cor- 
vinus, when he had regained consciousness, that they had drawn 
him out of the water, but that his purse must have been lost 
in it, and lay still buried in the deep mud. They bore him to 
a neighbouring cottage, while the carriage was being repaired, 
and had a good carouse with his money while he slept. 

Two acts of revenge had been thus accomplished in one day 
— the pagan and the Christian. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


213 


CHAPTER XX 
THE PUBLIC WORKS 

If, before the Edict, the Thermae of Dioclesian were being 
erected by the labour and sweat of Christian prisoners, it will 
not appear surprising that their number and their sufferings 
should have greatly increased with the growing intensity of a 
most savage persecution. That emperor himself was expected 
for the inauguration of his favourite building, and hands were 
doubled on the work to expedite its completion. Chains of 
supposed culprits arrived each day from the port of Luna, from 
Sardinia, and even from the Crimea or Chersonesus, where 
they had been engaged in quarries or mines, and were put to 
labour in the harder departments of the building art. To 
transport materials, to saw and cut stone and marble, to mix 
the mortar, and to build up the walls, were the duties allotted 
to the religious culprits, many of whom were men little accus- 
tomed to such menial toil. The only recompense which they 
received for their labour was that of the mules and oxen which 
shared their occupation. Little better, if better, than a stable 
to sleep in, food sufficient in quantity to keep up their strength, 
clothing enough to guard them from the inclemency of the 
season, this was all they had to expect. Fetters on their 
ankles, heavy chains to prevent their escape, increased their 
sufferings, and taskmasters, acceptable in proportion as they 
were unreasonable, watched every gang with lash or stick in 
hand, ever ready to add pain to toil, whether it were to vent 
their own wanton cruelty upon unresisting objects, or to please 
their crueller niasters. 

But the Christians of Rome took peculiar care of these 
blessed confessors, who were particularly venerated by them. 
Their deacons visited them, by bribing their guards ; and young 
men would boldly venture among them, and distribute more 
nourishing food, or warmer clothing to them, or give them the 
means of conciliating their keepers, so as to obtain better treat- 
ment at their hands. They would then also recommend them- 
selves to their prayers, as they kissed the chains and the bruises, 
which these holy confessors bore for Christ. 

This assemblage of men, convicted of serving faithfully their 
divine Master, was useful for another purpose. Like the stew 
in which the luxurious Lucullus kept his lampreys ready fattened 
for a banquet ; like the cages in which rare birds, the pens in 


FABIOLA ,* OR, 


214 

which well-fed cattle, were preserved for the sacrifice, or the 
feast of an imperial anniversary ; like the dens near the amphi- 
theatre, in which ferocious beasts were fed for exhibition at 
the public games ; just so were the public works the preserves, 
from which at any time could be drawn the materials for a 
sanguinary hecatomb, or a gratification of the popular appetite 
for cruel spectacles, on any occasion of festivity ; public stores 
of food for those fierce animals, whenever the Roman people 
wished to share in their savage propensities. 

Such an occasion was now approaching. The persecution 
had lingered. No person of note had been yet captured ; the 
failures of the first day had not been fully repaired ; and some- 
thing more wholesale was expected. The people demanded 
more sport; and an approaching imperial birthday justified 
their gratification. The wild beasts, which Sebastian and 
Pancratius had heard, yet roared for their lawful prey. “ Chris- 
tianos ad leones ” might seem to have been interpreted by them 
as meaning “that the Christians of right belonged to them.” 

One afternoon, towards the end of December, Corvinus 
proceeded to the Baths of Dioclesian, accompanied by Catulus, 
who had an eye for proper combatants in the amphitheatre, 
such as a good dealer would have for cattle at a fair. He 
called for Rabirius, the superintendent of the convict depart- 
ment, and said to him — “ Rabirius, I am come by order of 
the emperor to select a sufficient number of the wicked Chris- 
tians under your charge, for the honour of fighting in the 
amphitheatre, on occasion of the coming festival.” 

“ Really,” answered the officer, “ T have none to spare. I am 
obliged to finish the work in a given time, and I cannot do so, 
if I am left short of hands.” 

“ I cannot help that ; others will be got to replace those that 
are taken from you. You must walk Catulus and myself through 
your works, and let us choose those that will suit us.” 

Rabirius, grumbling at this unreasonable demand, submitted 
nevertheless to it, and took them into a vast area, just vaulted 
over. It was entered by a circular vestibule lighted from above, 
like the Pantheon. This led into one of the shorter arms of a 
cruciform hall of noble dimensions, into which opened a number 
of lesser, though still handsome, chambers. At each angle of 
the hall, where the arms intersected one another, a huge granite 
pillar of one block had to be erected. Two were already in 
their places, one was girt with ropes delivered round capstans, 
ready to be raised on the morrow. A number of men were 
actively employed in making final preparations, Catulus 


v 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 21 5 

nudged Corvinus, and pointed with his thumb to two fine 
youths, who, stripped slave-fashion to their waists, were speci- 
mens of manly athletic forms. 

“ I must have those two, Rabirius,” said the willing purveyor 
to wild beasts ; “ they will do charmingly. I am sure they are 
Christians, they work so cheerfully.” 

“ I cannot possibly spare them at present They are worth 
six men, or a pair of horses, at least, to me. Wait till the 
heavy work is over, and then they are at your service.” 

“ What are their names, that I may take a note of them ? 
And mind, keep them up in good condition.” 

“ They are called Largus and Smaragdus ; they are young 
men of excellent family, but work like plebeians, and will go 
with you nothing loth.” 

“ They shall have their wish,” said Corvinus, with great glee. 
And so they had later. 

As they went through the works, however, they picked out 
a number of captives, for many of whom Rabirius made resist- 
ance, but generally in vain. At length they came near one of 
those chambers which flanked the eastern side of the longer 
arm of the hall. In one of them they saw a number of con- 
vict^ (if we must use the term) resting after their labour. The 
centre of the group was an old man, most venerable in appear- 
ance, with a long white beard streaming on his breast, mild in 
aspect, gentle in word, cheerful in his feeble action. It was 
the confessor Saturninus, now in his eightieth year, yet loaded 
with two heavy chains. At each side were the more youthful 
labourers, Cyriacus and Sisinnius, of whom it is recorded, that 
in addition to their own task-work, one on each side, they bore 
up his bonds. Indeed, we are told that their particular de- 
light was, over and above their own assigned portion of toil, to 
help their weaker brethren, and perform their work for them . 1 
But their time was not yet come ; for both of them, before 
they received their crowns, were ordained deacons in the next 
pontificate. 

Several other captives lay on the ground about the old man’s 
feet, as he, seated on a block of marble, was talking to them 
with a sweet gravity, which riveted their attention, and seemed 
to make them forget their sufferings. What was he saying to 
them ? Was he requiting Cyriacus for his extraordinary charity 
by telling him that, in commemoration of it, a portion of the 
immense pile which they were toiling to raise, would be dedi- 

1 See Piazza, on the church of Santa Maria degli Angeli, in his work 
on the Stations of Rome. 


2 1 6 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

cated to God under his invocation, become a title, and close 
its line of titulars by an illustrious name ? 1 Or was he re- 
counting another more glorious vision, how this smaller oratory 
was to be superseded and absorbed by a glorious temple in 
honour of the Queen of Angels, which should comprise the 
entire of that superb hall, with its vestibule, under the directing 
skill of the mightiest artistic genius that the world should ever 
see . 2 What more consoling thought could have been vouch- 
safed to those poor oppressed captives than that they were not 
so much erecting baths for the luxury of a heathen people, or 
the prodigality of a wicked emperor, as in truth building up 
one of the stateliest churches in which the true God is wor- 
shipped, and the Virgin Mother, who bore Him incarnate, is 
affectionately honoured ? 

From a distance Corvinus saw the group, and pausing, asked 
the superintendent the names of those who composed it. He 
enumerated them readily ; then added, “ You may as well take 
that old man, if you like ; for he is not worth his keep so far 
as work goes.” 

“ Thank you,” replied Corvinus, “ a pretty figure he would 
cut in the amphitheatre. The people are not to be put off 
with decrepit old creatures, whom a single stroke of a bear’s or 
tiger’s paw kills outright. They like to see young blood flow- 
ing, and plenty of life struggling against wounds and blows 
before death comes to decide the contest. But there is one 
there whom you have not named. His face is turned from us ; 
he has not the prisoner’s garb, nor any kind of fetter. Who 
can it be ? ” 

“ I do not know his name,” answered Rabirius ; “ but he is 
a fine youth, who spends much of his time among the convicts, 
relieves them, and even at times helps them in their work. 
He pays, of course, well for being allowed all this ; so it is 
not our business to ask questions.” 

“But it is mine, though,” said Corvinus sharply; and he 
advanced for this purpose. The voice caught the stranger’s 
ear, and he turned round to look. 

Corvinus sprung upon him with the eye and action of a wild 
beast, seized him, and called out with exultation, “Fetter him in- 
stantly. This time, at least, Pancratius, thou shalt not escape.” 

1 The last cardinal of the extinct title of St. Cyriacus’s, formed out of a 
part of these baths, was Cardinal Bembo. 

2 Michaelangelo. The noble and beautiful church of Sta. Maria degli 
Angeli was made by him out of the central hall and circular vestibule de- 
scribed in the text. The floor was afterwards raised, and thus the pillars 
were shortened, and the height of the building diminished by several feet. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


2 1 7 


CHAPTER XXI 
THE PRISON 

If a modem Christian wishes really to know what his fore- 
fathers underwent for the faith, during three centuries of perse- 
cution, we would not have him content himself with visiting 
the catacombs, as we have tried to make him do, and thus 
learning what sort of life they were compelled to lead ; but we 
would advise him to peruse those imperishable records, the 
Ads of the Martyrs , which will show him how they were made 
to die. We know of no writings so moving, so tender, so con- 
soling, and so ministering of strength to faith and to hope, 
after God’s inspired words, as these venerable monuments. 
And if our reader, so advised, have not leisure sufficient to 
read much upon this subject, we would limit him willingly to 
one specimen, the genuine Acts of SS. Perpetua and Felicitas. 
It is true that they will be best read by the scholar in their 
plain African latinity ; but we trust that some one will soon 
give us a worthy English version of these, and some other 
similar early Christian documents. The ones which we have 
singled out are the same as were known to St. Augustine, and 
cannot be read by any one without emotion. If the reader 
would compare the morbid sensibility, and the overstrained 
excitement, endeavoured to be produced by a modern French 
writer, in the imaginary journal of a culprit condemned to 
death, down to the immediate approach of execution, with the 
unaffected pathos and charming truthfulness which pervades 
the corresponding narrative of Yivia Perpetua, a delicate lady 
of twenty-one years of age, he would not hesitate in conclud- 
ing, how much more natural, graceful, and interesting are the 
simple recitals of Christianity, than the boldest fictions of 
romance. And when our minds are sad, or the petty persecu- 
tions of our times incline our feeble hearts to murmur, we can- 
not do better than turn to that really golden, because truthful 
legend, or to the history of the noble martyrs of Vienne, or 
Lyons, or to the many similar, still extant records, to nerve our 
courage, by the contemplation of what children and women, 
catechumens and slaves, suffered, unmurmuring, for Christ. • 
But we are wandering from our narrative. Pancratius, with 
some twenty more, fettered and chained together, were led 
through the streets to prison. As they were thus dragged 


2 1 8 FABIOLA ; OR, 

along, staggering and stumbling helplessly, they were unmerci- 
fully struck by the guards who conducted them ; and any per- 
sons near enough to reach them dealt them blows and kicks 
without remorse. Those further off pelted them with stones 
or offal, and assailed them with insulting ribaldry . 1 They 
reached the Mamertine prison at last, and were thrust down 
into it, and found there already other victims, of both sexes, 
awaiting their time of sacrifice. The youth had just time, 
while he was being handcuffed, to request one of the captors to 
inform his mother and Sebastian of what had happened ; and 
he slipt his purse into his hand. 

A prison in ancient Rome was not the place to which a 
poor man might court committal, hoping there to enjoy better 
fare and lodging than he did at home. Two or three of these 
dungeons, for they are nothing better, still remain ; and a brief 
description of the one which we have mentioned will give our 
readers some idea of what confessorship cost, independent of 
martyrdom. 

The Mamertine prison is composed of two square subter- 
ranean chambers, one below the other, with only one round 
aperture in the centre of each vault, through which alone light, 
air, food, furniture, and men could pass. When the upper 
story was full, we may imagine how much of the two first could 
reach the lower. No other means of ventilation, drainage, or 
access could exist. The walls, of large stone blocks, had, or 
rather have, rings fastened into them, for securing the prisoners, 
but many used to be laid on the floor, with their feet fastened 
in the stocks; and the ingenious cruelty of the persecutors 
often increased the discomfort of the damp stone floor, by 
strewing with broken potsherds this only bed allowed to the 
mangled limbs and welted backs of the tortured Christians. 
Hence we have in Africa a company of martyrs, headed by SS. 
Saturninus and Dativus, who all perished through their suffer- 
ings in prison. And the Acts of the Lyonese Martyrs inform 
us, that many new-comers expired in the jail, killed by its 
severities, before their bodies had endured any torments ; while, 
on the contrary, some who returned to it so cruelly tortured 
that their recovery appeared hopeless, without any medical or 
other assistance, there regained their health . 2 At the same 
time the Christians bought access to these abodes of pain, but 
not of sorrow, and furnished whatever could, under such cir- 
cumstances, relieve the sufferings, and increase the comforts, 

1 See the account of St. Pothinus. Ruinart, i. p. 145. 

2 Ruinart, p. 145. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 2ig 

temporal and spiritual, of these most cherished and venerated 
of their brethren. 

Roman justice required at least the outward forms of trial ; 
and hence the Christian captives were led from their dungeons 
before the tribunal, where they were subjected to an interro- 
gatory, of which most precious examples have been preserved 
in the proconsular Acts of Martyrs, just as they were entered 
by the secretary or registrar of the court. 

When the Bishop of Lyons, Pothinus, now in his ninetieth 
year, was asked, “ Who is the God of the Christians ? ” he 
replied, with simple dignity, “ If thou shalt be worthy, thou 
shalt know .” 1 Sometimes the judge would enter into a dis- 
cussion with his prisoner, and necessarily get the worst of it ; 
though the latter would seldom go further with him than 
simply reiterating his plain profession of the Christian faith. 
Often, as in the case of one Ptolomaeus, beautifully recited by 
St. Justin, and in that of St. Perpetua, he was content to ask 
the simple question, Art thou a Christian ? and upon an affir- 
mative reply, proceeded to pronounce capital sentence. 

Pancratius and his companion stood before the judge, for it 
wanted only three days to the miinus , or games, at which they 
were to “ fight with wild beasts.” 

“ What art thou ? ” he asked of one. 

“ I am a Christian, by the help of God,” was the rejoinder. 

“ And who art thou ? ” said the Prefect to Rusticus. 

“ I am, indeed, a slave of Caesar’s,” answered the prisoner ; 
“ but becoming a Christian, I have been freed by Christ Him- 
self ; and by His grace and mercy I have been made partaker 
of the same hope as those whom you see.” 

Then turning to a holy priest, Lucianus, venerable for his 
years and his virtues, the judge thus addressed him : “ Come, be 
obedient to the gods themselves, and to the Imperial Edicts.” 

“ No one,” answered the old man, “ can be reprehended or 
condemned who obeys the precepts of Jesus Christ our Saviour.” 

“ What sort of learning and studies dost thou pursue ? ” 

“I have endeavoured to master every science, and have 
tried every variety of learning. But finally I adhered to the 
doctrines of Christianity, although they do not please those 
who follow the wanderings of false opinions.” 

“Wretch ! dost thou find delight in that learning?” 

“The greatest, because I follow the Christians in right 
doctrine.” 

“ And what is that doctrine ? ” 

1 “ Si dignus fueris, cognosces.” Ruinart. 


220 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

“The right doctrine, which we Christians piously hold, is to 
believe in one God, the Maker and Creator of all things visible 
and invisible, and to confess the Lord Jesus Christ the Son of 
God, anciently foretold by the prophets, who will come to judge 
mankind, and is the preacher and master of salvation, to those 
who will learn well under Him. I indeed, as a mere man, am 
too weak and insignificant to be able to utter anything great 
of His infinite Deity ; this office belongs to the prophets.” 1 

“ Thou art, methinks, a master of error to others, and de- 
servest to be more severely punished than the rest. Let this 
Lucianus be kept in the nerve (stocks) with his feet stretched 
to the fifth hole . 2 And you two women, what are your names 
and condition?” 

“Iam a Christian, who have no spouse but Christ. My 
name is Secunda,” replied the one. 

“ And I am a widow, named Rufina, professing the same 
saving faith,” continued the other. 

At length, after having put similar questions, and received 
similar answers from all the others, except from one wretched 
man, who, to the grief of the rest, wavered and agreed to offer sac- 
rifice, the Prefect turned to Pancratius, and thus addressed him. 
“ And now, insolent youth, who hadst the audacity to tear 
down the Edict of the divine emperors, even for thee there 
shall be mercy if yet thou wilt sacrifice to the gods. Show 
thus at once thy piety and thy wisdom, for thou art yet but a 
stripling.” 

Pancratius signed himself with the sign of the saving cross, 
and calmly replied, “ I am the servant of Christ. Him I ac- 
knowledge by my mouth, hold firm in my heart, incessantly 
adore. This youth which you behold in me has the wisdom 
of grey hairs, if it worship but one God. But your gods, with 
those who adore them, are destined to eternal destruction.” 3 

“ Strike him on the mouth for his blasphemy, and beat him 
with rods,” exclaimed the angry judge. 

“ I thank thee,” replied meekly the noble youth, “ that thus 
I suffer some of the same punishment as was inflicted on my 
Lord .” 4 

The Prefect then pronounced sentence in the usual form. 
“ Lucianus, Pancratius, Rusticus, and others, and the women 
Secunda and Rufina, who have all owned themselves Christians, 

1 Acts of St. Justin. Ruinart, p. 129. 

2 This is mentioned as the extreme possible extension. 

3 Acts of St. Felicitas and her Sons. Ruinart, p. 56. 

4 Acts of St. Perpetua, &c. Ibid., p. 220. 



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“ ‘ Is it possible ? Is that Tarsisius whom I met a few moments ago, so fair 
and lovely ? ’ ” — Page 225. 




THE CHURCH OE THE CATACOMBS 22 1 

and refuse to obey the sacred emperor, or worship the gods of 
Rome, we order to be exposed to wild beasts in the Flavian 
amphitheatre’’ 

The mob howled with delight and hatred, and accompanied 
the confessors back to their prison with this rough music, but 
they were gradually overawed by the dignity of their gait, and 
the shining calmness of their countenances. Some men as- 
serted that they must have perfumed themselves, for they could 
perceive a fragrant atmosphere surrounding their persons . 1 


CHAPTER XXII 

THE VIATICUM 

A true contrast to the fury and discord without was the scene 
within the prison. Peace, serenity, cheerfulness, and joy 
reigned there, and the rough stone walls and vaults re-echoed 
to the chant of psalmody, in which Pancratius was precentor, 
and in which depth called out to depth ; for the prisoners in 
the lower dungeon responded to those above, and kept up the 
alternation of verses in those psalms which the circumstances 
naturally suggested. 

The eve of “fighting with,” that is, being torn to pieces by 
wild beasts, was always a day of greater liberty. The friends 
of the intended victims were admitted to see them, and the 
Christians boldly took full advantage of the permission to flock 
to the prison and commend themselves to the prayers of the 
blessed confessors of Christ. At evening they were led forth 
to enjoy what was called the free supper, that is, an abundant, 
and even luxurious, public feast. The table was surrounded 
by pagans, curious to watch the conduct and looks of the 
morrow’s combatants. But they could discern neither the 
bravado and boisterousness, nor the dejection and bitterness, 
of ordinary culprits. To the guests it was truly an agape, or 
love-feast, for they supped with calm joyfulness amidst cheer- 
ful conversation. Pancratius, however, once or twice reproved 
the unfeeling curiosity and rude remarks of the crowd, saying, 
“To-morrow is not sufficient for you, because you love to look 
upon the objects of your future hatred To-day you are our 
friends ; to-morrow our foes. But mark well our countenances,, 
that you may know them again in the day of judgment.” 

1 Acts of Lyonese Martyrs. Ruinart, pp. 219 and 146. 


2 22 FABIOLA ; OR, 

Many retired at this rebuke, and not a few were led by it to 
conversion. 

But while the persecutors thus prepared a feast for the bodies 
of their victims, the Church, their mother, had been preparing 
a much more dainty banquet for the souls of her children. 
They had been constantly attended on by the deacons, parti- 
cularly Reparatus, who would gladly have joined their company. 
But his duty forbade this at present. After, therefore, having 
provided as well as possible for their temporal wants, he had 
arranged with the pious priest Dionysius, who still dwelt in the 
house of Agnes, to send, towards evening, sufficient portions 
of the Bread of Life, to feed, early in the morning of their battle, 
the champions of Christ. Although the deacons bore the con- 
secrated elements from the principal church to others, where 
they were only distributed by the titulars, the office of convey- 
ing them to the martyrs in prison, and even to the dying, was 
committed to inferior ministers. On this day, that the hostile 
passions of heathen Rome were unusually excited by the coming 
slaughter of so many Christian victims, it was a work of more 
than common danger to discharge this duty. For the revela- 
tions of Torquatus had made it known, that Fulvius had care- 
fully noted all the ministers of the sanctuary, and given a 
description of them to his numerous active spies. Hence they 
could scarcely venture out by day, unless thoroughly disguised. 

The Sacred Bread was prepared, and the priest turned round 
from the altar on which it was placed, to see who would be its 
safest bearer. Before any other could step forward, the young 
acolyte Tarcisius knelt at his feet. With his hands extended 
before him, ready to receive the sacred deposit, with a counte- 
nance beautiful in its lovely innocence as an angel’s, he seemed 
to entreat for preference, and even to claim it. 

“Thou art too young, my child,” said the kind priest, filled 
with admiration of the picture before him. 

“ My youth, holy father, will be my best protection. Oh ! 
do not refuse me this great honour.” The tears stood in the 
boy’s eyes, and his cheeks glowed with a modest emotion, as 
he spoke these words. He stretched forth his hands eagerly, 
and his entreaty was so full of fervour and courage, that the 
plea was irresistible. The priest took the Divine Mysteries 
wrapped up carefully in a linen cloth, then in an outer covering, 
and put them on his palms, saying — 

“ Remember, Tarcisius, what a treasure is intrusted to thy 
feeble care. Avoid public places as thou goest along; and 
1 Acts of Lyonese Martyrs. Ruinart, p. 219 . 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 2 23 

remember that holy things must not be delivered to dogs, nor 
pearls be cast before swine. Thou wilt keep safely God’s 
sacred gifts ? ” 

“I will die rather than betray them,” answered the holy 
youth, as he folded the heavenly trust in the bosom of his tunic, 
and with cheerful reverence started on his journey. There was 
a gravity beyond the usual expression of his years stamped upon 
his countenance, as he tripped lightly along the streets, avoiding 
equally the more public, and the too low, thoroughfares. 

As he was approaching the door of a large mansion, its 
mistress, a rich lady without children, saw him coming, and 
was struck with his beauty and sweetness, as, with arms folded 
on his breast, he was hastening on. “ Stay one moment, dear 
child,” she said, putting herself in his way ; “ tell me thy name, 
and where do thy parents live ? ” 

“ I am Tarcisius, an orphan boy,” he replied, looking up 
smilingly ; “ and I have no home, save one which it might be 
displeasing to thee to hear.” 

“Then come into my house and rest; I wish to speak to 
thee. Oh, that I had a child like thee ! ” 

“ Not now, noble lady, not now. I have intrusted to me a 
most solemn and sacred duty, and I must not tarry a moment 
in its performance.” 

“ Then promise to come to me to-morrow ; this is my house.” 

“If I am alive, I will,” answered the boy, with a kindled 
look, which made him appear to her as a messenger from a 
higher sphere. She watched him a long time, and after some 
deliberation determined to follow him. Soon, however, she 
heard a tumult with horrid cries, which made her pause, on her 
way, until they had ceased, .when she went on again. 

In the meantime, Tarcisius, with his thoughts fixed on better 
things than her inheritance, hastened on, and shortly came into 
an open space, where boys, just escaped from school, were 
beginning to play. 

“ We just want one to make up the game ; where shall we 
get him ? ” said their leader. 

“ Capital ! ” exclaimed another ; “ here comes Tarcisius, 
whom I have not seen for an age. He used to be an excel- 
lent hand at all sports. Come, Tarcisius,” he added, stopping 
him by seizing his arm, “ whither so fast ? take a part in our 
game, that’s a good fellow.” 

“ I can’t, Petilius, now ; I really can’t. I am going on 
business of great importance.” 

“But you shall,” exclaimed the first speaker, a strong and 


224 fabiola; or, 

bullying youth, laying hold of him. “ I will have no sulking, 
when I want anything done. So come, join us at once.” 

' “ I entreat you,” said the poor boy feelingly, “ do let me go.” 

“No such thing,” replied the other. “ What is that you seem 
to be carrying so carefully in your bosom ? A letter, I suppose ; 
well, it will not addle by being for half an hour out of its nest. 
Give it to me, and I will put it by safe while we play.” And 
he snatched at the sacred deposit in his breast. 

“ Never never,” answered the child, looking up towards 
heaven. 

“ I will see it,” insisted the other rudely ; “ I will know 
what is this wonderful secret.” And he commenced pulling 
him roughly about. A crowd of men from the neighbourhood 
soon got round, and all asked eagerly what was the matter. 
They saw a boy, who, with folded arms, seemed endowed with 
a supernatural strength, as he resisted every effort of one much 
bigger and stronger, to make him reveal what he was bearing. 
Cuffs, pulls, blows, kicks seemed to have no effect. He bore 
them all without a murmur, or an attempt to retaliate ; but he 
unflinchingly kept his purpose. 

“ What is it ? what can it be ? ” one began to ask the other ; 
when Fulvius chanced to pass by, and joined the circle round 
the combatants. He at once recognised Tarcisius, having 
seen him at the Ordination ; and being asked, as a better- 
dressed man, the same question, he replied contemptuously, 
as he turned on his heel, “ What is it ? Why, only a Christian 
ass, bearing the Mysteries.” 1 

This was enough. Fulvius, while he scorned such unprofit- 
able prey, knew well the effect of his word. Heathen curiosity, 
to see the Mysteries of the Christians revealed, and to insult 
them, was aroused, and a general demand was made to Tar- 
cisius to yield up his charge. “Never with life,” was his only 
reply. A heavy blow from a smith’s fist nearly stunned him, 
while the blood flowed from the wound. Another and another 
followed, till, covered with bruises, but with his arms crossed 
fast upon his breast, he fell heavily on the ground. The mob 
closed upon him, and were just seizing him to tear open his 
thrice-holy trust, when they felt themselves pushed aside right 
and left by some giant strength. Some went reeling to the 
further side of the square, others were spun round and round, 
they knew not how, till they fell where they were, and the rest 
retired before a tall athletic officer, who was the author of this 
overthrow. He had no sooner cleared the ground than he was 
1 Asinus portans mysteria, a Latin proverb. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 22£ 

on his knees, and with tears in his eyes raised up the bruised 
and fainting boy as tenderly as a mother could have done, 
and in most gentle tones asked him, “ Are you much hurt, 
Tarcisius ? ” 

“Never mind me, Quadratus,” answered he, opening his 
eyes with a smile ; “ but I am carrying the Divine Mysteries ; 
take care of them.” 

The soldier raised the boy in his arms with tenfold rever- 
ence, as if bearing, not only the sweet victim of a youthful 
sacrifice, a martyr’s relics, but the very King and Lord of 
Martyrs, and the divine Victim of eternal salvation. The 
child’s head leaned in confidence on the stout soldier’s neck, 
but his arms and hands never left their watchful custody of 
the confided gift ; and his gallant bearer felt no weight in the 
hallowed double burden which he carried. No one stopped 
him, till a lady met him and stared amazedly at him. She 
drew nearer, and looked closer at what he carried. “ Is it 
possible ? ” she exclaimed with terror, “ is that Tarcisius, whom 
I met a few moments ago, so fair and lovely ? Who can have 
done this ? ” 

“Madam,” replied Quadratus, “they have murdered him 
because he was a Christian.” 

The lady looked for an instant on the child’s countenance. 
He opened his eyes upon her, smiled, and expired. From that 
look came the light of faith — she hastened to be a Christian 
likewise. 

The venerable Dionysius could hardly see for weeping, as he 
removed the child’s hands, and took from his bosom, unviolated, 
the Holy of Holies ; and he thought he looked more like ar. 
angel now, sleeping the martyr’s slumber, than he did when living 
scarcely an hour before. Quadratus himself bore him to the 
cemetery of Callistus, where he was buried amidst the ad- 
miration of older believers ; and later the holy Pope Damasus 
composed for him an epitaph, which no one can read, without 
concluding that the belief in the real presence of Our Lord’s 
Body in the B. Eucharist was the same then as now : 

“ Tarcisium sanctum Christi sacramenta gerentem, 

Cum male sana manus peteret vulgare profanis ; 

Ipse animam potius voluit diroittere caesus 
Prodere quam canibus rabidis coelestia membra.” 1 


1 “ Christ’s secret gifts, by good Tarcisius borne, 

The mob profanely bade him to display ; 

He rather gave his own limbs to be torn, 

Than Christ’s celestial to nad dogs betray .” — Carmen xviii. 


226 


fabiola; or, 


He is mentioned in the Roman martyrology, on the 15th of 
August, as commemorated in the cemetery of Callistus ; whence 
his relics were, in due time, translated to the church of St. 
Sylvester in Campo, as an old inscription declares. 

News of this occurrence did not reach the prisoners till after 
their feast ; and perhaps the alarm that they were to be deprived 
of the spiritual food to which they looked forward for strength, 
was the only one that could have overcast, even slightly, the 
serenity of their souls. At this moment Sebastian entered, and 
perceived at once that some unpleasant news had arrived, and 
as quickly divined what it was ; for Quadratus had already 
informed him of all. He cheered up, therefore, the confessors 
of Christ ; assured them that they should not be deprived of 
their coveted food ; then whispered a few words to Reparatus 
the deacon, who flew out immediately with a look of bright 
intelligence. 

Sebastian, being known to the guards, had passed freely in 
and out of the prison daily ; and had been indefatigable in his 
care of its inmates. But now he was come to take his last fare- 
well of his dearest friend, Pancratius, who had longed for this 
interview. They drew to one side, when the youth began — 

“Well, Sebastian, do you remember when we heard the 
wild beasts roar from your window, and looked at the many 
gaping arches of the amphitheatre, as open for the Christian’s 
truimph ? ” 

“Yes, my dear boy; I remember that evening well, and it 
seemed to me as if your heart anticipated then the scenes that 
await you to-morrow.” 

“ It did, in truth. I felt an inward assurance that I should 
be one of the first to appease the roaring fury of those deputies 
of human cruelty. But now that the time is come, I can hardly 
believe myself worthy of so immense an honour. What can I 
have done, Sebastian, not indeed to deserve it, but to be chosen 
out as the object of so great a grace ? ” 

“You know, Pancratius, that it is not he who willeth, nor 
he that runneth, but God who hath mercy, that maketh the 
election. But tell me rather, how do you now feel about 
to-morrow’s glorious destiny ? ” 

“To tell the truth, it seems to me so magnificent, so far 

See also Baronius’s notes to the Martyrology. The words “(Christi) 
ccelestia membra applied to the Blessed Eucharist, supply one of those 
casual, but most striking, arguments that result from identity of habitual 
thought in antiquity, more than from the use of studied or conventional 
phrasds. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


227 

beyond my right to claim, that sometimes it appears more like 
a vision than a certainty. Does it not sound almost incredible 
to you, that I, who this night am in a cold, dark, and dismal 
prison, shall be, before another sun has set, listening to the 
harping of angelic lyres, walking in the procession of white- 
robed Saints, inhaling the perfume of celestial incense, and 
drinking from the crystal waters of the stream of life ? Is it 
not too like what one may read or hear about another, but 
hardly dares to think is to be, in a few hours, real of himself? ” 
“ And nothing more than you have described, Pancratius ? ” 
“ Oh yes, far more ; far more than one can name without 
presumption. That I, a boy just come out of school, who have 
done nothing for Christ as yet, should be able to say, ‘ Some 
time to-morrow I shall see Him face to face, and adore Him, 
and shall receive from Him a palm and a crown, yea, and an 
affectionate embrace,’ — I feel is so like a beautiful hope, that it 
startles me to think it will soon be that no longer. And yet, 
Sebastian,” he continued fervently, seizing both his friend’s 
hands, “ it is true — it is true ! ” 

“ And more still, Pancratius.” 

“Yes, Sebastian, more still, and more. To close one’s eyes 
upon the faces of men, and open them in full gaze on the face 
of God ; to shut them upon ten thousand countenances scowl- 
ing on you with hatred, contempt, and fury from every step of 
the amphitheatre, and unclose them instantly upon that one 
sunlike intelligence, whose splendour would dazzle or scorch, 
did not its beams surround, and embrace, and welcome us ; to 
dart them at once into the furnace of God’s heart, and plunge 
into its burning ocean of mercy and love without fear of de- 
struction — surely, Sebastian, it sounds like presumption in me 
to say, that to-morrow — nay, hush ! the watchman from the 
capitol is proclaiming midnight — that to-day, to-day, I shall 
enjoy all this ! ” 

“ Happy Pancratius ! ” exclaimed the soldier ; “ you antici- 
pate already by some hours the raptures to come.” 

“ And do you know, dear Sebastian,” continued the youth, 
as if unconscious of the interruption, “ it looks to me so good 
and merciful in God to grant me such a death. How much 
more willingly must one at my age face it when it puts an end 
to all that is hateful on earth, when it extinguishes but the 
sight of hideous beasts and sinning men, scarcely less frightful 
than they, and hushes only the fiend-like yells of both ! How 
much more trying would it be to part with the last tender look 
of a mother like mine, and shut one’s ears to the sweet plaint of 


228 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

her patient voice ! True, I shall see her and hear her, for the 
last time, as we have arranged, to-day before my fight ; but I 
know she will not unnerve me.” 

A tear had made its way into the affectionate boy’s eye, but 
he suppressed it, and said with a gay tone — 

“ But, Sebastian, you have not fulfilled your promise — your 
double promise to me — to tell me the secrets you concealed 
from me. This is your last opportunity ; so, come, let me 
know all.” 

“ Do you remember well what the secrets were ? ” 

“ Right well, indeed, for they have much perplexed me. 
First, on that night of the meeting in your apartments you said 
there was one motive strong enough to check your ardent desire 
to die for Christ ; and lately, you refused to give me your reason 
for despatching me hastily to Campania, and joined this secret 
to the other — how, I cannot conceive.” 

“ Yet they form but one. I had promised to watch over 
your true welfare, Pancratius : it was a duty of friendship and 
love that I had assumed. I saw your eagerness after martyr- 
dom ; I knew the ardent temperament of your youthful heart ; 
I dreaded lest you should commit yourself by some over- 
daring action, which might tarnish, even as lightly as a breath 
does finely tempered steel, the purity of your desire, or tip with 
a passing blight one single leaf of your palm. I determined, 
therefore, to restrain my own earnest longings, till I had seen 
you safe through danger. Was this right ? ” 

“ Oh, it was too kind of you, dear Sebastian ; it was nobly 
kind. But how is this connected with my journey ? ” 

“ If I had not sent you away, you would have been seized 
for your boldly tearing down the Edict, or your rebuke of the 
judge in his court. You would have been certainly con- 
demned, and would have suffered for Christ; but your sen- 
tence would have proclaimed a different, and a civil offence, 
that of rebellion against the emperors. And moreover, my 
dear boy, you would have been singled out for a triumph. 
You would have been pointed at by the very heathens with 
honour, as a gallant and daring youth ; you might have been 
disturbed, even in' your conflict, by a transient cloud of pride ; 
at any rate, you would have been spared that ignominy, which 
forms the distinctive merit and the special glory, of dying for 
simply being a Christian.” 

“ Quite true, Sebastian,” said Pancratius, with a blush. 

“But when I saw you,” continued the soldier, “taken in 
the performance of a generous act of charity towards the con- 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


229 


fessors of Christ ; when I saw you dragged through the streets, 
chained to a galley-slave, as a common culprit ; when I saw 
you pelted and hooted like other believers ; when I heard sen- 
tence pronounced on you in common with the rest, because 
you are a Christian, and for nothing else, I felt that my task 
was ended ; I would not have raised a finger to save you.” 

“ How like God’s love has yours been to me — so wise, so 
generous, and so unsparing ! ” sobbed out Pancratius, as he 
threw himself on the soldier’s neck; then continued: “ Pro- 
mise me one thing more — that this day you will keep near me 
to the end, and will secure my last legacy to my mother.” 

“ Even if it cost my life, I will not fail. We shall not be 
parted long, Pancratius.” 

The deacon now gave notice that all was ready for offering 
up the holy oblation in the dungeon itself. The two youths 
looked round, and Pancratius was indeed amazed. The holy 
priest Lucianus was laid stretched on the floor, with his limbs 
painfully distended in the catasta or stocks, so that he could 
not rise. Upon his breast Reparatus had spread the three 
linen cloths requisite for the altar ; on them was laid the un- 
leavened bread, and the mingled chalice, which the deacon 
steadied with his hand. The head of the aged priest was held 
up, as he read the accustomed prayers, and performed the pre- 
scribed ceremonies of the oblation and consecration. And 
then, each one, approaching devoutly, and with tears of grati- 
tude, received from his consecrated hand his share. — that is, 
the whole of the mystical food . 1 

Marvellous and beautiful instance of the power of adapta- 
tion in God’s Church ! Fixed as are her laws, her ingenious 
love finds means, through their very relaxation, to demonstrate 
their principles ; nay, the very exception presents only a sub- 
limer application of them. Here was a minister of God, and a 
dispenser of His mysteries, who for once was privileged to be, 
more than others, like Him whom he represented, — at once 
the Priest and the Altar. The Church prescribed that the 
Holy Sacrifice should be offered only over the relics of martyrs ; 
here was a martyr, by a singular prerogative, permitted to offer 
it over his own body. Yet living, he “lay beneath the feet of 
God.” The bosom still heaved, and the heart panted under 
the Divine Mysteries, it is true ; but that was only part of the 
action of the minister : while self was already dead, and the 
sacrifice of life was, in all but act, completed in him. There 

1 Such a celebration of the Divine Mysteries, by a priest of this name, at 
Antioch, is recorded in his Acts. (See Ruinart, tom. iii. p. 182, note.) 


230 


fabiola; or, 


was only Christ’s life within and without the sanctuary of that 
breast . 1 Was ever viaticum for martyrs more worthily pre- 
pared ? 


CHAPTER XXIII 

THE FIGHT 

The morning broke light and frosty ; and the sun, glittering 
on the gilded ornaments of the temples and other public build- 
ings, seemed to array them in holiday splendour. And the 
people, too, soon come forth into the streets in their gayest 
attire, decked out with unusual richness. The various streams 
converge towards the Flavian amphitheatre, now better known 
by the name of the Coliseum. Each one directs his steps to 
the arch indicated by the number of his ticket, and thus the 
huge monster keeps sucking in by degrees that stream of life, 
which soon animates and enlivens its oval tiers over tiers of 
steps, till its interior is tapestried all round with human faces, 
and its walls seem to rock and wave to and fro, by the swaying 
of the living mass. And, after this shall have been gorged with 
blood, and inflamed with fury, it will melt once more, and rush 
out in a thick continuous flow through the many avenues by 
which it entered, now bearing their fitting name of Vo?nitoria ; 
for never did a more polluted stream of the dregs and pests 
of humanity issue from an unbecoming reservoir, through 
ill-assorted channels, than the Roman mob, drunk with the 
blood of martyrs, gushing forth from the pores of the splendid 
amphitheatre. 

The emperor came to the games surrounded by his court, 
with all the pomp and circumstance which befitted an imperial 
festival, keen as any of his subjects to witness the cruel games, 
and to feed his eyes with a feast of carnage. His throne was 
on the eastern side of the amphitheatre, where a large space, 
called the pulvinar , was reserved, and richly decorated for the 
imperial court. 

Various sports succeeded one another ; and many a gladiator 
killed, or wounded, had sprinkled the bright sand with blood, 
when the people, eager for fiercer combats, began to call, or 
roar for the Christians and the wild beasts. It is time, there- 
fore, for us to think of our captives. 

Before the citizens were astir, they had been removed from 
1 “ I live now, not I, but Christ liveth in me.” — Gal. ii. 20. 


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231 

the prison to a strong chamber called the spoliatorium, , the 
press-room, where their fetters and chains were removed. An 
attempt was made to dress them gaudily as heathen priests 
and priestesses ; but they resisted, urging that as they had 
come spontaneously to the fight, it was unfair to make them 
appear in a disguise which they abhorred. During the early 
part of the day they remained thus together encouraging one 
another, and singing the Divine praises, in spite of the shouts 
which drowned their voices from time to time. 

While they were thus engaged, Corvinus entered, and, with 
a look of insolent triumph, thus accosted Pancratius — 

“Thanks to the gods, the day is come which I have long 
desired. It has been a tiresome and tough struggle between 
us who should fall uppermost. I have won it.” 

“ How sayest thou, Corvinus ? when and how have I con- 
tended with thee ? ” 

“Always — everywhere. Thou hast haunted me in my dreams ; 
thou hast danced before me like a meteor, and I have tried in 
vain to grasp thee. Thou hast been my tormentor, my evil 
genius. I have hated thee ; devoted thee to the infernal gods ; 
cursed thee and loathed thee ; and now my day of vengeance 
is come.” 

“ Methinks,” replied Pancratius, smiling, “ this does not look 
like a combat. It has been all on one side ; for I have done 
none of these things towards thee.” 

“ No ? thinkest thou that I believe thee, when thou hast lain 
ever as a viper on my path, to bite my heel, and overthrow me ? ” 

“ Where, I again ask ? ,J 

“Everywhere, I repeat. At school; in the Lady Agnes’s 
house ; in the Forum ; in the cemetery ; in my father’s own 
court ; at Chromatius’s villa. Yes, everywhere.” 

“ And nowhere else but where thou hast named ? when thy 
chariot was dashed furiously along the Appian way, didst thou 
not hear the tramp of horses’ hoofs trying to overtake thee ? ” 

“Wretch!” exclaimed the Prefect’s son in a fury; “and 
was it thy accursed steed which, purposely urged forward, 
frightened mine, and nearly caused my death ? ” 

“No, Corvinus, hear me calmly. It is the last time we 
shall speak together. I was travelling quietly with a com- 
panion towards Rome, after having paid the last rites to our 
master Cassianus” (Corvinus winced, for he knew not this 
before), “ when I heard the clatter of a runaway chariot , and 
then, indeed, I put spurs to my horse ; and it is well for thee 
that I did.” 


232 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


“ How so ? ” 

“ Because I reached thee just in time — when thy strength 
was nearly exhausted, and thy blood almost frozen by repeated 
plunges in the cold canal; and when thy arm, already be- 
numbed, had let go its last stay, and thou wast falling back- 
wards for the last time into the water. # I saw thee — I knew 
thee, as I took hold of thee, insensible’. I had in my grasp 
the murderer of one most dear to me. Divine justice seemed 
to have overtaken him ; there was only my will between him 
and his doom. It was my day of vengeance, and I fully 
gratified it.” 

“ Ha ! and how, pray?” 

“ By drawing thee out, and laying thee on the bank, and 
chafing thee till thy heart resumed its functions; and then 
consigning thee to thy servants, rescued from death.” 

“ Thou liest ! ” screamed Corvinus ; “ my servants told me 
that they drew me out.” 

“And did they give thee my knife, together with thy leopard- 
skin purse, which I found on the ground, after I had dragged 
thee forth ? ” 

“ No ; they said the purse was lost in the canal. It was a 
leopard-skin purse, the gift of an African sorceress. What 
sayest thou of the knife ? ” 

“ That it is here, see it, still rusty with the water ; thy purse 
I gave to thy slaves ; my own knife I retained for myself ; look 
at it again. Dost thou believe me now ? Have I been always 
a viper on thy path ? ” 

Too ungenerous to acknowledge that he had been con- 
quered in the struggle between them, Corvinus only felt him- 
self withered, degraded, before his late schoolfellow, crumbled 
like a clot of dust in his hands. His very heart seemed to 
him to blush. He felt sick, and staggered, hung down his 
head, and sneaked away. He cursed the games, the emperor, 
the yelling rabble, the roaring beasts, his horses and chariot, 
his slaves, his father, himself — everything and everybody except 
one — he could not, for his life, curse Pancratius. 

He had reached the door, when the youth called him back. 
He turned and looked at him with a glance of respect, almost 
approaching to love. Pancratius put his hand on his arm, and 
said, “ Corvinus, I have freely forgiven thee. There is On© 
above, who cannot forgive without repentance. Seek pardon 
from Him. If not, I foretell to thee this day, that by whatso- 
ever death I die, thou too shalt one day perish.” 

Corvinus slunk away, and appeared no more that day. He 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


233 

lost the sight on which his coarse imagination had gloated for 
days, which he had longed for during months. When the 
holiday was over, he was found by his father completely intoxi- 
cated : it was the only way he knew of drowning remorse. 

As he was leaving the prisoners, the l anista , or master of the 
gladiators, entered the room, and summoned them to the com- 
bat. They hastily embraced one another, and took leave on 
earth. They entered the arena, or pit of the amphitheatre, 
opposite the imperial seat, and had to pass between two files 
of venatores, or huntsmen, who had the care of the wild beasts, 
each armed with a heavy whip, wherewith he inflicted a blow 
on every one, as he went by him. They were then brought 
forward, singly or in groups, as the people desired, or the 
directors of the spectacle chose. Sometimes the intended prey 
was placed on an elevated platform to be more conspicuous ; 
at another time he was tied up to posts to be more helpless. 
A favourite sport was to bundle up a female victim in a net, and 
expose her to be rolled, tossed, or gored by wild cattle . 1 One 
encounter with a single wild beast often finished the martyr’s 
course ; while occasionally three or four were successively let 
loose, without their inflicting a mortal wound. The confessor 
was then either remanded to prison for further torments, or 
taken back to the spoliatorium , where the gladiator’s apprentices 
amused themselves with despatching him. 

But we must content ourselves with following the last steps 
of our youthful hero, Pancratius. As he was passing through 
the corridor that led to the amphitheatre, he saw Sebastian 
standing on one side, with a lady closely enwrapped in her 
mantle, and veiled. He at once recognised her, stopped before 
her, knelt, and taking her hand, affectionately kissed it. “Bless 
me, dear mother,” he said, “in this your promised hour.” 

“See, my child, the heavens,” she replied, “and look up 
thither, where Christ with His saints expecteth thee. Fight 
the good fight, for thy soul’s sake, and show thyself faithful 
and steadfast in thy Saviour’s love . 2 Remember him too whose 
precious relic thou bearest round thy neck.” 

“ Its price shall be doubled in thine eyes, my sweet mother, 
ere many hours are over.” 

“On, on, and let us have none of this fooling,” exclaimed 
the lanista , adding a stroke of his cane. 

1 See the Acts of the Martyrs of Lyons, Ruinart, vol. i. p. 152 (where 
will be found the account of the martyrdom of a youth of fifteen), and those 
of St. Perpetua and Felicitas, p. 221. 

2 See the Acts of St. Felicitas and her seven sons, Ruinart, vol. i. p. 55. 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


234 

Lucina retreated ; while Sebastian pressed the hand of her 
son, and whispered in his ear, “ Courage, dearest boy ; may 
God bless you ! I shall be close behind the emperor ; give me 
a last look there, and — your blessing.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” broke out a fiendish tone close behind him. 
Was it a demon’s laugh ? He looked behind, and caught only 
a glimpse of a fluttering cloak rounding a pillar. Who could 
it be? He guessed not. It was Fulvius, who in these words 
had got the last link in a chain of evidence that he had long 
been weaving — that Sebastian was certainly a Christian. 

Pancratius soon stood in the midst of the arena, the last of 
the faithful band. He had been reserved, in hopes that the 
sight of others’ sufferings might shake his constancy ; but the 
effect had been the reverse. He took his stand where he was 
placed, and his yet delicate frame contrasted with the swarthy 
and brawny limbs of the executioners who surrounded him. 
They now left him alone ; and we cannot better describe him 
than Eusebius, an eye-witness, does a youth a few years older : 

“You might have seen a tender youth, who had not yet 
entered his twentieth year, standing without fetters, with his 
hands stretched forth in the form of a cross, and praying to 
God most attentively, with a fixed and untrembling heart ; not 
retiring from the place where he first stood, nor swerving the 
least, while bears and leopards, breathing fury and death in 
their very snort, were just rushing on to tear his limbs in pieces. 
And yet, I know not how, their jaws seemed seized and closed 
by some divine and mysterious power, and they drew alto- 
gether back.” 1 

Such was the attitude, and such the privilege of our heroic 
youth. The mob were frantic, as they saw one wild beast after 
another careering madly round him, roaring and lashing its 
sides with its tail, while he seemed placed in a charmed circle, 
which they could not approach. A furious bull, let loose upon 
him, dashed madly forward, with his neck bent down, then 
stopped suddenly, as though he had struck his head against a 
wall, pawed the ground, and scattered the dust around him, 
bellowing fiercely. 

“ Provoke him, thou coward ! ” roared out, still louder, the 
enraged emperor. 

Pancratius awoke as from a trance, and waving his arms, 
ran towards his enemy ; 2 but the savage brute, as if a lion had 

1 Hist. Eccles. lib. viii. c. 7- 

2 Euseb. ibid. See also St. Ignatius’s letter to the Romans, in his Acts, 
ap. Ruinart, vol. i. p. 40. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 235 

been rushing on him, turned round, and ran away towards the 
entrance, where, meeting his keeper, he tossed him high into the 
air. All were disconcerted except the brave youth, who had 
resumed his attitude of prayer ; when one of the crowd shouted 
out, “ He has a charm round his neck ; he is a sorcerer ! ” 
The whole multitude re-echoed the cry, till the emperor, having 
commanded silence, called out to him, “ Take that amulet from 
thy neck, and cast it from thee, or it shall be done more roughly 
for thee.” 

“Sire,” replied the youth, with a musical voice, that rang 
sweetly through the hushed amphitheatre, “ it is no charm that 
I wear, but a memorial of my father, who in this very place 
made gloriously the same confession which I now humbly make ; 
I am a Christian ; and for love of Jesus Christ, God and man, 
I gladly give my life. Do not take from me this only legacy, 
which I have bequeathed, richer than I received it, to another. 
Try once more ; it was a panther which gave him his crown ; 
perhaps it will bestow the same on me.” 

For an instant there was dead silence; the multitude 
seemed softened, won. The graceful form of the gallant 
youth, his now inspired countenance, the thrilling music of 
his voice, the intrepidity of his speech, and his generous self- 
devotion to his cause, had wrought upon that cowardly herd. 
Pancratius felt it, and his heart quailed before their mercy 
more than before their rage ; he had promised himself heaven 
that day; was he to be disappointed? Tears started into his 
eyes, as stretching forth his arms once more in the form of a 
cross, he called aloud, in a tone that again vibrated through 
every heart — 

“To-day ; oh yes, to-day, most blessed Lord, is the appointed 
day of Thy coming. Tarry not longer ; enough has Thy power 
been shown in me to them that believe not in Thee; show 
now Thy mercy to me who in Thee believe ! ” 

“ The panther ! ” shouted out a voice. “ The panther ! ” 
responded twenty. “The panther! ” thundered forth a hundred 
thousand, in a chorus like the roaring of an avalanche . 1 A 
cage started up, as if by magic, from the midst of the sand, 
and as it rose, its side fell down, and freed the captive of the 
desert . 2 With one graceful bound the elegant savage gained 
its liberty; and, though enraged by darkness, confinement, 
and hunger, it seemed almost playful, as it leaped and turned 

1 The amphitheatre could contain 150,000. 

2 This was an ordinary device. The underground constructions for its 
practice had been found in the Coliseum, 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


236 

about, frisked and gambolled noiselessly on the sand. At last 
it caught sight of its prey. All its feline cunning and cruelty 
seemed to return, and to conspire together in animating the 
cautious and treacherous movements of its velvet-clothed frame. 
The whole amphitheatre was as silent as if it had been a 
hermit’s cell, while every eye was intent, watching the stealthy 
approaches of the sleek brute to its victim. Pancratius was 
still standing in the same place, facing the emperor, apparently 
so absorbed in higher thoughts, as not to heed the movements 
of his enemy. The panther had stolen round him, as if dis- 
daining to attack him except in front. Crouching upon its 
breast, slowly advancing one paw before another, it had gained 
its measured distance, and there it lay for some moments of 
breathless suspense. A deep snarling growl, an elastic spring 
through the air, and it was seen gathered up like a leech, with 
its hind feet on the chest, and its fangs and fore claws On the 
throat of the martyr. 

He stood erect for a moment, brought his right hand to his 
mouth, and looking up at Sebastian with a smile, directed to 
him, by a graceful wave of his arm, the last salutation of his 
lips — and fell. The arteries of the neck had been severed, and 
the slumber of martyrdom at once settled on his eyelids. His 
blood softened, brightened, enriched, and blended inseparably 
with that of his father, which Lucina had hung about his neck. 
The mother’s sacrifice had been accepted . 1 


CHAPTER XXIV 

THE CHRISTIAN SOLDIER 

The body of the young martyr was deposited in peace on the 
Aurelian way, in the cemetery which soon bore his name, 
and gave it, as we have before observed, to the neighbouring 
gate. In times of peace, a basilica was raised over his tomb, 
and yet stands to perpetuate his honour. 

The persecution now increased its fury, and multiplied its 
daily victims. Many whose names have appeared in our 

1 The martyr Saturus, torn by a leopard, and about to die, addressed the 
soldier Pudens, not yet a Christian, in words of exhortation ; then asked 
him for the ring on his finger, dipped it in his own blood, and gave it back, 
“leaving him the inheritance of that pledge, and the memorial of his 
blood.” Ap. Ruinart, vol. i. p. 223. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


237 


pages, especially the community of Chromatius’s villa, rapidly 
fell. The first was Zoe, whose dumbness Sebastian had cured. 
She was surprised by a heathen rabble, praying at St. Peter’s 
tomb, and was hurried to trial, and hung with her head over a 
smoky fire till she died. Her husband, with three others of 
the same party, was taken, repeatedly tortured, and beheaded. 
Tranquillinus, the father of Marcus and Marcellianus, jealous 
of Zoe’s crown, prayed openly at St. Paul’s tomb ; he was taken 
and summarily stoned to death. His twin sons suffered 
also a cruel death. The treachery of Torquatus, by his 
describing his former companions, especially the gallant 
Tiburtius, who was now beheaded , 1 greatly facilitated this 
wholesale destruction. 

Sebastian moved in the midst of this slaughter, not like 
a builder who saw his work destroyed by a tempest, nor a 
shepherd who beheld his flock borne off by marauders. He 
felt as a general on the battle-field, who looked only to the 
victory ; counting every one as glorious who gave his life in its 
purchase, and as ready to give his own should it prove to be 
the required price. Every friend that fell before him was a 
bond less to earth, and a link more to heaven ; a care less 
below, a claim more above. He sometimes sat lonely, or 
paused silently, on the spots where he had conversed with 
Pancratius, recalling to mind the buoyant cheerfulness, the 
graceful thoughts, and the unconscious virtue of the amiable 
and comely youth. But he never felt as if they were more 
separated than when he sent him on his expedition to Cam- 
pania. He had redeemed his pledge to him ; and now it was 
soon to be his own turn. He knew it well ; he felt the grace 
of martyrdom swelling in his breast, and in tranquil certainty 
he awaited its hour. His preparation was simple : whatever 
he had of value he distributed to the poor ; and he settled his 
property, by sale, beyond the reach of confiscation. 

Fulvius had picked up his fair share of Christian spoils; 
but, on the whole, he had been disappointed. He had not 
been obliged to ask for assistance from the emperor, whose 
presence he avoided ; but he had put nothing by, he was not 
getting rich. Every evening he had to bear the reproachful 
and scornful interrogatory of Eurotas on the day’s success. 
Now, however, he told his stern master — for such he had 
become — that he was going to strike at higher game, the 

1 He is commemorated on the 1 ith of August, with his father Chromatius, 
as has been already observed. 


238 FABIOLA ; OR, 

emperQr’s favourite officer, who must have made a large fortune 
in the service. 

He had not long to wait for his opportunity. On the 9th of 
January, a court was held, attended, of course, by all aspirants 
for favours, or fearers of imperial wrath. Fulvius was there, 
and, as usual, met with a cold reception. But after bearing 
silently the muttered curses of the royal brute, he boldly 
advanced, dropped on one knee, and thus addressed him — 

“ Sire, your divinity has often reproached me with having 
made, by my discoveries, but a poor return for your gracious 
countenance and liberal subsidies. But now I have found out 
the foulest of plots, and the basest of ingratitudes, in immediate 
contact with your divine person.” 

“What dost thou mean, booby?” asked impatiently the 
tyrant. “ Speak at once, or I’ll have the words pulled out of 
thy throat by an iron hook.” 

Fulvius rose, and directing his hand, in accompaniment to 
his words, said with a bitter blandness of tone, “ Sebastian 
is a Christian.” 

The emperor started from his throne in fury. 

“ Thou liest, villain ! Thou shalt prove thy words, or thou 
shalt die such a piecemeal death, as no Christian dog ever 
endured.” 

“ I have sufficient proof recorded here,” he replied, producing 
a parchment, and offering it, kneeling. 

The emperor was about to make an angry answer, when, 
to his utter amazement, Sebastian, with unruffled looks and 
noble mien, stood before him, and in the calmest accents said, 
“ My liege, I spare you all trouble of proof. I am a Christian, 
and I glory in the name.” 

As Maximian, a rude though clever soldier, without educa- 
tion, could hardly when calm express himself in decent Latin, 
when he was in a passion his language was composed of 
broken sentences, mingled with every vulgar and coarse epithet. 
In this state he was now ; and he poured out on Sebastian a 
torrent of abuse, in which he reproached him with every crime, 
and called him by every opprobrious name, within his well- 
stocked repertory of vituperation. The two crimes, however, 
on which he rung his loudest changes were ingratitude and 
treachery. He had nursed, he said, a viper in his bosom, 
a scorpion, an evil demon; and he only wondered he was 
still alive. 

The Christian officer stood the volley as intrepidly as ever 
he had borne the enemy’s assault on the field of battle. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 23$ 

“ Listen to me, my royal master,” he replied, “perhaps for 
the last time. I have said I am a Christian ; and in this you 
have had the best pledge of your security.” 

“ How do you mean, ungrateful man ? ” 

“Thus, noble emperor— that if you want a body-guard 
around you of men who will spill their last drop of life’s blood 
for you, go to the prison and take the Christians from the 
stocks on the floor, and from the fetter-rings on the walls; 
send to the courts and bear away the mutilated confessors from 
the rack and the gridiron ; issue orders to the amphitheatres, 
and snatch the mangled half that lives, from the jaws of tigers ; 
restore them to such shape as yet they are capable of, put 
weapons into their hands, and place them around you ; and in 
this maimed and ill-favoured host there will be more fidelity, 
more loyalty, more daring for you, than in all your Dacian and 
Pannonian legions. You have taken half their blood from 
them, and they will give you willingly the other half.” 

“ Folly and madness ! ” returned the sneering savage. “ I 
would sooner surround myself with wolves than with Chris- 
tians. Your treachery proves enough for me.” 

“And what would have prevented me at any time from 
acting the traitor, if I had been one ? Have I not had access 
to your royal person by night as by day ; and have I proved a 
traitor? No, emperor, none has ever been more faithful than 
I to you. But I have another, and a higher Lord to serve ; 
one who will judge us both ; and His laws I must obey rather 
than yours.” 

“ And why have you, like a coward, concealed your religion ? 
To escape, perhaps, the bitter death you have deserved ! ” 

“ No, sire ; no more coward than traitor. No one better 
than yourself knows that I am neither. So long as I could do 
any good to my brethren, I refused not to live amidst their 
carnage and my afflictions. But hope had at last died within 
me ; and I thank Fulvius with all my heart, for having, by his 
accusation, spared me the embarrassment of choice between 
seeking death or enduring life.” 

“ I will decide that point for you. Death is your award ; 
and a slow lingering one it shall be. But,” he added, in a 
lower tone, as if speaking to himself, “ this must not get out. 
All must be done quietly at home, or treachery will spread. 
Here, Quadratus, take your Christian tribune under arrest. 
Do you hear, dolt ? Why do you not move ? ” 

“ Because I too am a Christian ! ” 

Another burst of fury, another storm of vile language, which 


fabiola; or, 


240 

ended in the stout centurion’s being ordered at once to execu- 
tion. But Sebastian was to be differently dealt with. 

“ Order Hyphax to come hither,” roared the tyrant. In a 
few minutes, a tall, half-naked Numidian made his appearance. 
A bow of immense length, a gaily painted quiver full of arrows, 
and a short broadsword, were at once the ornaments and the 
weapons of the captain of the African archers. He stood erect 
before the emperor, like a handsome bronze statue, with bright 
enamelled eyes. 

“ Hyphax, I have a job for you to-morrow morning. It 
must be well done,” said the emperor. 

“ Perfectly, sire,” replied the dusky chief, with a grin which 
showed another set of enamels in his face. 

“You see the captain Sebastian?” The negro bowed 
assent, “ He turns out to be a Christian ! ” 

If Hyphax had been on his native soil, and had trodden sud- 
denly on a hooped asp or a scorpion’s nest, he could not have 
started more. The thought of being so near a Christian — to 
him who worshipped every abomination, believed every absur- 
dity, practised every lewdness, committed any atrocity ! 

Maximian proceeded, and Hyphax kept time to every 
member of his sentences by a nod, and what he meant to be 
a smile ; — it was hardly an earthly one. 

“You will take Sebastian to your quarters ; and early to- 
morrow morning — not this evening, mind, for I know that 
by this time of day you are all drunk — but to-morrow morn- 
ing, when your hands are steady, you will tie him to a tree in 
the grove of Adonis, and you will slowly shoot him to death. 
Slowly, mind ; none of your fine shots straight through the 
heart or the brain, but plenty of arrows, till he die exhausted 
by pain and loss of blood. Do you understand me ? Then 
take him off at once. And mind, silence ; or else ” 


CHAPTER XXV 

THE RESCUE 

In spite of every attempt at concealment, the news was soon 
spread among all connected with the court, that Sebastian had 
been discovered to be a Christian, and was to be shot to death 
on the morrow. But on none did the double intelligence 
make such an impression as on Fabiola. 



4 ‘ Each one received from his consecrated hand the mystical food.” — Page 229, 
















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THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 24 1 

Sebastian a Christian! she said to herself; the noblest, 
purest, wisest of Rome’s nobility a member of that vile, stupid 
sect ? Impossible ! Yet the fact seems certain. 

Have I, then, been deceived ? Was he not that which he 
seemed ? Was he a mean impostor, who affected virtue, but 
was secretly a libertine ? Impossible, too ! Yes, this was in- 
deed impossible ! She had certain proofs of it. He knew 
that he might have had her hand and fortune for the asking ; 
and he had acted most generously and most delicately towards 
her. He was what he seemed, that she was sure — not gilded, 
but gold. 

Then how account for this phenomenon, of a Christian 
being all that was good, virtuous, amiable ? 

One solution never occurred to Fabiola’s mind, that he was 
all this, because he was a Christian. She only saw the problem 
in another form ; how could he be all that he was, in spite of 
being a Christian ? 

She turned it variously in her mind, in vain. Then it came 
to her thought thus. Perhaps, after all, good old Chromatius 
was right, and Christianity may not be what I have fancied ; 
and I ought to have inquired more about it. I am sure Sebas- 
tian never did the horrible things imputed to Christians. Yet 
everybody charges them with them. 

Might there not be a more refined form of this religion, 
and a more grovelling one ; just as she knew there was in her 
own sect, Epicureanism ? one coarse, material, wallowing in 
the very mire of sensualism ; the other refined, sceptical, and 
reflective. Sebastian would belong to the higher class, and 
despise and loathe the superstitions and vices of the commoner 
Christians. Such a hypothesis might be tenable ; but it was 
hard to reconcile to her intellect, how a man like that noble 
soldier could, any way, have belonged to that hated race. 
And yet he was ready to die for their faith ! As to Zoe and 
the others she had heard nothing ; for she had only returned 
the day before from a journey made into Campania, to arrange 
her father’s affairs. 

“ What a pity, she thought, that she had not talked more to 
Sebastian on such subjects ! But it was now too late ; to- 
morrow morning he would be no more. This second thought 
came with the sharp pang of a shaft shot into her heart. She 
felt as if she personally were about to suffer a loss, as if Sebas- 
tian’s fate were going to fall on some one closely bound to her 
by some secret and mysterious tie. 

Her thoughts grew darker and sadder, as she dwelt on these 

Q 


242 FABIOLA ; OR, 

ideas, amidst the deepening gloom. She was suddenly dis- 
turbed by the entrance of a slave with a light. It was Afra, 
the black servant, who came to prepare her mistress’s evening 
repast, which she wished to take alone. While busy with her 
arrangements, she said, “ Have you heard the news, madam ? ” 
“ What news ? ” 

“ Only that Sebastian is going to be shot with arrows to-mor- 
row morning. What a pity ; he was such a handsome youth ! ” 
“ Be silent, Afra ; unless you have some information to give 
me on the subject.” 

“ Oh, of course, my mistress ; and my information is indeed 
very astonishing. Do you know that he turns out to be one 
of those wretched Christians ? ” 

“ Hold your peace, I pray you ; and do not prate any more 
about what you do not understand.” 

“ Certainly not, if you so wish it : I suppose his fate is quite 
a matter of indifference to you, madam It certainly is to me. 
He won’t be the first officer that my countrymen have shot. 
Many they have killed, and* some they have saved. But of 
course that was all chance.” 

There was a significance in her words and tones which did 
not escape the quick ear and mind of Fabiola. She looked 
up for the first time, and fixed her eyes searchingly on her 
maid’s swarthy face. There was no emotion in it ; she was 
placing a flagon of wine upon the table, just as if she had not 
spoken. At length the lady said to her — 

“ Afra, what do you mean ? ” 

“Oh, nothing, nothing. What can a poor slave know? 
Still more, what can she do ? ” 

“ Come, come, you meant by your words something that I 
must know.” 

The slave came round the table, close to the couch on which 
Fabiola rested, looked behind her, and around her, then whis- 
pered, “ Do you want Sebastian’s life preserved ? ” 

Fabiola almost leapt up, as she replied, “ Certainly.” 

The servant put her finger to her lip, to enforce silence, and 
said, “It will cost dear.” 

“ Name your price.” 

“ A hundred sestertia , 1 and my liberty.” 

“ I accept your terms 1 ; but what is my security for them ? ” 

“ They shall be binding only, if twenty-four hours after the 
execution he is still alive.” 

“ Agreed ; and what is yours ? ” 

1 About ,£800. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


243 


“Your word, lady.” 

“ Go, Afra, lose not a moment.” 

“ There is no hurry,” quietly replied the slave, as she com- 
pleted, unflurried, the preparations for supper. 

She then proceeded at once to the palace, and to the Mauri- 
tanian quarters, and went in directly to the commander. 

“What dost thou want, Jubala,” he said, “at this hour? 
There is no festival to-night.” 

“ I know, Hyphax ; but I have important business with thee.” 

“ What is it about ? ” 

“About thee, about myself, and about thy prisoner.” 

“ Look at him there,” said the barbarian, pointing across the 
court, which his door commanded. “ You would not think 
that he is going to be shot to-morrow. See how soundly he 
sleeps. He could not do so better if he were going to be 
married instead.” 

“ As thou and I, Hyphax, intend to be the next day.” 

“ Come, not quite so fast ; there are certain conditions to 
be fulfilled first.” 

“ Well, what are they ? ” 

“ First, thy manumission. I cannot marry a slave.” 

“ That is secured.” 

“Secondly, a dowry, a good dowry, mind ; for I never wanted 
money more than now.” 

“ That is safe too. How much dost thou expect ? ” 

“ Certainly not less than three hundred pounds.” 1 

“ I bring thee six hundred.” 

“ Excellent ! where didst thou get all this cash ? Whom 
hast thou robbed ? whom hast thou poisoned, my admirable 
priestess ? Why wait till after to-morrow ? Let it be to-morrow, 
to-night, if it please thee.” 

“ Be quiet now, Hyphax ; the money is all lawful gain ; but 
it has its conditions, too. I said I came to speak about the 
prisoner also.” 

“Well, what has he to do with our approaching nuptials?” 

“A great deal.” 

“ What now ? ” 

“ He must not die.” 

The captain looked at her with a mixture of fury and stupidity. 
He seemed on the point of laying violent hands on her ; but 
she stood intrepid and unmoved before him, and seemed to 
command him by the strong fascination of her eye, as one of 
the serpents of their native land might do a vulture, 

1 We give equivalents in English money, as more intelligible. 


244 FABIOLA ; OR, 

“ Art mad ? ” he at last exclaimed ; “ thou mightest as well 
at once ask for my head. If thou hadst seen the emperor’s 
face when he issued his orders, thou wouldst have known he 
will have no trifling with him here.” 

“ Pshaw ! pshaw ! man ; of course the prisoner will appear 
dead, and will be reported as dead.” 

“And if he finally recover?” 

“ His fellow-Christians will take care to keep him out of 
the way.” 

“Didst thou say twenty-four hours alive? I wish thou 
hadst made it twelve.” 

“Well, but I know that thou canst calculate close. Let 
him die in the twenty-fifth hour, for what I care.” 

“It is impossible, Jubala, impossible; he is too important 
a person.” 

“ Very well, then ; there is an end to our bargain. The 
money is given only on this condition. Six hundred pounds 
thrown away ! ” And she turned off to go. 

“ Stay, stay,” said Hyphax eagerly, the demon of covetous- 
ness coming uppermost. “ Let us see. Why, my fellows will 
consume half the money in bribes and feasting.” 

“Well, I have two hundred more in reserve for that.” 

“Sayest thou so, my princess, my sorceress, my charming 
demon ? But that will be too much for my scoundrels. We 
will give them half, and add the other half — to our marriage 
settlements, shan’t we ? ” 

“ As it pleases thee, provided the thing is done according to 
my proposal.” 

“ It is a bargain, then. He shall live twenty-four hours ; 
and after that, we will have a glorious wedding.” 

Sebastian in the meantime was unconscious of these amiable 
negotiations for his safety ; for, like Peter between two guards, 
he was slumbering soundly by the wall of the court. Fatigued 
with his day’s work, he had enjoyed the rare advantage of 
retiring early to rest ; and the marble pavement was a good 
enough soldier’s bed. But after a few hours’ repose, he awoke 
refreshed ; and now that all was hushed, he silently rose, and 
with outstretched arms, gave himself up to prayer. 

The martyr’s prayer is not a preparation for death ; for his 
is a death that needs no preparation. The soldier who sud- 
denly declares himself a Christian, bends down his head, and 
mingles his blood with that of the confessor, whom he had 
come to execute ; or the friend of unknown name, who salutes 
the martyr going to death, is seized, and made to bear him 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 245 

willing company , 1 is as prepared for martyrdom, as he who has 
passed months in prison engaged in prayer. It is not a cry, 
therefore, for the forgiveness of past sin ; for there is a con- 
sciousness of that perfect love, which sendeth out fear, an 
inward assurance of that highest grace, which is incompatible 
with sin. 

Nor in Sebastian was it a prayer for courage or strength ; 
for the opposite feeling, which could suggest it, was unknown 
to him. It never entered into his mind to doubt, that as he 
had faced death intrepidly for his earthly sovereign on the 
battlefield, so he should meet it joyfully for his heavenly Lord 
in any place. 

His prayer, then, till morning, was a gladsome hymn of 
glory and honour to the King of kings, a joining with the 
seraph’s glowing eyes and ever-shaking wings in restless 
homage. 

Then when the stars in the bright heavens caught his eyes, 
he challenged them as wakeful sentinels like himself to ex- 
change the watchword of Divine praises ; and as the night- 
wind rustled in the leafless trees of the neighbouring court of 
Adonis, he bade its wayward music compose itself, and its rude 
harping upon the vibrating boughs form softer hymns, — the 
only ones that earth could utter in its winter night-hours. 

Now burst upon him the thrilling thought that the morning 
hour approached, for the cock had crowed ; and he would soon 
hear those branches murmuring over him to. the sharp whistle 
of flying arrows, unerring in their aim. And he offered him- 
self gladly to their sharp tongues, hissing as the serpent’s, to 
drink his blood. He offered himself as an oblation for God’s 
honour, and for the appeasing of His wrath. He offered him- 
self particularly for the afflicted Church, and prayed that his 
death might mitigate her sufferings. 

And then his thoughts rose higher, from the earthly to the 
celestial Church ; soaring like the eagle from the highest pin- 
nacle of the mountain-peak towards the sun. Clouds have 
rolled away, and the blue embroidered veil of morning is rent 
in twain, like the sanctuary’s, and he sees quite into its re- 
vealed depths ; far, far inwards, beyond senates of saints and 
legions of angels, to what Stephen saw of inmost and intensest 
glory. And now his hymn was silent ; harmonies came to 
him, too sweet and perfect to brook the jarring of a terrestrial 
voice ; they came to him, requiring no return ; for they brought 
heaven into his soul ; and what could he give back ? It was 
1 Called thence St, Adauctus, 


fabiola; or, 


246 

as a fountain of purest refreshment, more like gushing light 
than water, flowing from the foot of the Lamb, and poured 
into his heart, which could only be passive, and receive the 
gift. Yet in its sparkling bounds, as it rippled along towards 
him, he could see the countenance now of one, and then of 
another of the happy friends who had gone before him ; as if 
they were drinking, and bathing, and disporting, and plunging, 
and dissolving themselves in those living waters. 

His countenance was glowing as with the very reflection of 
the vision, and the morning dawn just brightening (oh, what a 
dawn that is !), caught his face as he stood up, with his arms 
in a cross, opposite the east ; so that when Hyphax opened his 
door and saw him, he could have crept across the court and 
worshipped him on his face. 

Sebastian awoke as from a trance ; and the chink of sesterces 
sounded in the mental ears of Hyphax ; so he set scientifically 
about earning them. He picked out of his troop of a hundred, 
five marksmen, who could split a flying arrow with a fleeter 
one, called them into his room, told them their reward, con- 
cealing his own share, and arranged how the execution was to 
be managed. As to the body, Christians had already secretly 
offered a large additional sum for its delivery, and two slaves 
were to wait outside to receive it. Among his own followers 
he could fully depend on secrecy. 

Sebastian was conducted into the neighbouring court of the 
palace, which separated the quarters of these African archers 
from his own dwelling. It was planted with rows of trees, and 
consecrated to Adonis. He walked cheerfully in the midst of 
his executioners, followed by the whole band, who were alone 
allowed to be spectators, as they would have been of an ordi- 
nary exhibition of good archery. The officer was stripped and 
bound to a tree, while the chosen five took their stand oppo- 
site, cool and collected. It was at best a desolate sort of 
death. Not a friend, not a sympathiser near; not one fellow- 
Christian to bear his farewell to the faithful, or to record for 
them his last accents, and the constancy of his end. To stand 
in the middle of the crowded amphitheatre, with a hundred 
thousand witnesses of Christian constancy, to see the encou- 
raging looks of many, and hear the whispered blessings of a 
few loving acquaintances, had something cheering, and almost 
inspiring in it ; it lent at least the feeble aid of human emo- 
tions to the more powerful sustainment of grace. The very 
shout of an insulting multitude put a strain upon natural 
courage, as the hunter’s cry only nerves the stag at bay. But 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


247 

this dead and silent scene, at dawn of day, shut up in the 
court of a house ; this being, with most unfeeling indifference 
tied up, like a truss of hay, or a stuffed figure, to be coolly 
aimed at, according to the tyrant’s orders ; this being alone in 
the midst of a horde of swarthy savages, whose very language 
was strange, uncouth, and unintelligible; but who were no 
doubt uttering their rude jokes, and laughing, as men do 
before a match or a game, which they are going to enjoy; all 
this had more the appearance of a piece of cruelty, about to be 
acted in a gloomy forest by banditti, than open and glorious 
confession of Christ’s name : it looked and felt more like 
assassination than martyrdom. 

But Sebastian cared not for all this. Angels looked over 
the wall upon him ; and the rising sun, which dazzled his eyes, 
but made him a clearer mark for his bowmen, shone not more 
brightly on him than did the countenance of the only Witness 
he cared to have of suffering endured for His sake ! 

The first Moor drew his bowstring to his ear, and an arrow 
trembled in the flesh of Sebastian. Each chosen marksman 
followed in turn; and shouts of applause accompanied each 
hit, so cleverly approaching, yet avoiding, according to the 
imperial order, every vital part. And so the game went on ; 
everybody laughing, and brawling, and jeering, and enjoying 
it, without a particle of feeling for the now drooping frame, 
painted with blood : 1 all in sport, except the martyr, to whom 
all was sober earnest — each sharp pang, the enduring smart, 
the exhaustion, the weariness, the knotty bonds, the constrained 
attitude ! Oh ! but earnest too was the steadfast heart, the 
untiring spirit, the unwavering faith, the unruffled patience, 
the unsated love of suffering for his Lord. Earnest was the 
prayer, earnest the gaze of the eye on heaven, earnest the 
listening of the ear for the welcoming strain of the heavenly 
porters, as they should open the gate. 

It was indeed a dreary death ; yet this was not the worst. 
After all, death came not ; the golden gates remained unbarred ; 
the martyr in heart, still reserved for greater glory even upon 
earth, found himself, not suddenly translated from death to 
life, but sunk into unconsciousness in the lap of angels His 
tormentors saw when they had reached their intended measure ; 
they cut the cords that bound him ; and Sebastian fell exhausted, 
and to all appearance dead, upon the carpet of blood which he 
had spread for himself on the pavement. Did he lie, like a 
noble warrior, as he now appears in marble under his altar, in 
1 “ Membraque picta cruore novo,” Prud. irepi <rre<f>. iii, 29. 


248 FABIOLA ; OR, 

his own dear church? We at least cannot imagine him as 
more beautiful. And not only that church do we love, but 
that ancient chapel which stands in the midst of the ruined 
Palatine, to mark the spot on which he fell . 1 


CHAPTER XXVI 

THE REVIVAL 

Night was far advanced, when the black slave, having com- 
pleted her marriage settlement, quite to her own satisfaction, 
was returning to her mistress’s house. It was, indeed, a cold 
wintry night, so she was well wrapped up, and in no humour 
to be disturbed. But it was a lovely night, and the moon 
seemed to be stroking, with a silvery hand, the downy robe of 
the meta sudans . 2 She paused beside it ; and, after a silence 
of some moments, broke out into a loud laugh, as if some 
ridiculous recollection connected itself in her mind with that 
beautiful object. She was turning round to proceed on her 
way, when she felt herself roughly seized by the arm. 

“ If you had not laughed,” said her captor bitterly, “ I 
should not have recognised you. But that hyena laugh of 
yours is unmistakable. Listen, the wild beasts, your African 
cousins, are answering it from the amphitheatre. What was 
it about, pray ? ” 

“About you.” 

“ How about me ? ” 

“ I was thinking of our last interview in this place, and what 
a fool you made of yourself.” 

“ How kind of you, Afra, to be thinking of me, especially as 
I was not just then thinking of you, but of your countrymen 
in those cells.” 

“ Cease your impertinence, and call people by their proper 
names. I am not Afra the slave any longer, at least I shall 
not be so in a few hours; but Jubala, the wife of Hyphax, 
commander of the Mauritanian archers.” 

“ A very respectable man, no doubt, if he could speak any 

1 The reader, when visiting the Crystal Palace, will find in the Roman 
Court an excellent model of the Roman Forum. On the raised mound of 
the Palatine hill, between the arches of Titus and Constantine, he will see a 
chapel of fair dimensions standing alone. It is the one to which we allude. 
It has been lately repaired by the Barberini family. 

2 The fountain before described. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 249 

language besides his gibberish ; but these few hours of interval 
may suffice for the transaction of our business. You made a 
mistake, methinks, in what you said just now. It was you , 
was it not, that made a fool of me at our last meeting ? What 
has become of your fair promises, and of my fairer gold, which 
were exchanged on that occasion? Mine, I know, proved 
sterling : yours, I fear, turned out but dust.” 

“No doubt ; for so says a proverb in my language : ‘ The dust 
on the wise man’s skirts is better than the gold in the fool’s 
girdle.’ But let us come to the point; did you really ever 
believe in the power of my charms and philtres ? ” 

“To be sure I did; do you mean they were all impos- 
ture ? ” 

“ Not quite all ; you see we have got rid of Fabius, and the 
daughter is in possession of the fortune. That was a prelimi- 
nary step of absolute necessity.” 

“ What ! do you mean that your incantations removed the 
father? ” asked Corvinus, amazed, and shrinking from her. It 
was only a sudden bright thought of Afra’s, so she pushed her 
advantage, saying — 

“ To be sure ; what else ? It is easy thus to get rid of any 
one that is too much in the way.” 

“ Good night, good night,” he replied, in great fear. 

“Stay a moment,” she answered, somewffiat propitiated; 
“ Corvinus, I gave you two pieces of advice worth all your gold 
that night. One you have acted against ; the other you have 
not followed.” 

“ How ? ” 

“ Did I not tell you not to hunt the Christians, but to catch 
them in your toils? Fulvius has done the second, and has 
gained something. You have done the first, and what have 
you earned ? ” 

“ Nothing but rage, confusion, and stripes.” 

“ Then I was a good counsellor in the one advice ; follow 
me in the second.” 

“ What was it ? ” 

“ When you had become rich enough by Christian spoil, to 
offer yourself, with your wealth, to Fabiola. She has till now 
coldly rejected every offer ; but I have observed one thing 
carefully. Not a single suit has been accompanied by riches. 
Every spendthrift has sought her fortune to repair his own ; 
depend upon it, he that wins the prize must come on the prin- 
ciple that two and two make four. Do you understand me ? ” 

“ Too well, for where are my two to come from ? ” 


250 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


“ Listen to me, Corvinns, for this is our last interview ; and 
I rather like you, as a hearty, unscrupulous, relentless, and un- 
feeling good hater.” She drew him nearer and whispered : “ I 
know from Eurotas, out of whom I can wheedle anything, 
that Fulvius has some splendid Christian prizes in view, one 
especially. Come this way into the shadow, and I will tell 
you how surely you may intercept his treasure. Leave to him 
the cool murder that will be necessary, for it may be trouble- 
some ; but step in between him and the spoil. lie would do 
it to you any day.” 

She spoke to him for some minutes in a low and earnest 
tone ; and at the end, he broke out into a loud exclamation, 
“ Excellent ! ” What a word in such a mouth ! 

She checked him by a pull, and pointing to the building 
opposite, exclaimed — “ Hush ! look there ! ” 

How are the tables turned ; or, rather, how has the world 
gone round in a brief space ! The last time these two wicked 
beings were on the same spot, plotting bane to others, the 
window above was occupied by two virtuous youths, who, like 
two spirits of good, were intent on unravelling their web of 
mischief, and countermining their dark approaches. They are 
gone thence, the one sleeping in his tomb, the other slumber- 
ing on the eve of execution. Death looks to us like a holy 
power, seeing how much he prefers taking to his society the 
good rather than the evil. He snatches away the flower, and 
leaves the weed its poisonous life, till it drops into mature 
decay. 

But at the moment that they looked up, the window was 
occupied by two other persons. 

“That is Fulvius,” said Corvinus, “who just came to the 
window.” 

“And the other is his evil demon, Eurotas,” added the 
slave. They both watched and listened from their dark nook. 

Fulvius came again, at that moment, to the window, with a 
sword in his hand, carefully turning and examining the hilt in 
the bright moonlight. He flung it down at last, exclaiming 
with an oath, “ It is only brass after all.” 

Eurotas came with, to all appearance, a rich officer’s belt, 
and examined it carefully. “ All false stones ! Why, I declare 
the whole of the effects are not worth fifty pounds. You have 
made but a poor job of this, Fulvius.” 

“ Always reproaching me, Eurotas. And yet this miserable 
gain has cost me the life of one of the emperor’s most favourite 
officers.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 25 1 

“ And no thanks probably from your master for it.” Eurotas 
was right. 

Next morning, the slaves who received the body of Sebastian 
were surprised by a swarthy female figure passing by them, and 
whispering to them, “ He is still alive.” 

Instead, therefore, of carrying him out for burial, they bore 
him to the apartment of Irene. The early hour of the morning, 
and the emperor’s having gone, the evening before, to his 
favourite Lateran palace, facilitated this movement. Instantly 
Dionysius was sent for, and he pronounced every wound cur- 
able ; not one arrow having touched a vital organ. But loss of 
blood had taken place to such a fearful extent, that he considered 
weeks must elapse before the patient would be fit to move. 

For four-and-twenty hours Afra assiduously called, almost 
every hour, to ask how Sebastian was. When the probationary 
term was finished, she conducted Fabiola to Irene’s apartment, 
to receive herself assurance that he breathed, though scarcely 
more. The deed of her liberation from servitude was executed, 
her dowry was paid, and the whole Palatine and Forum rung 
with the mad carouse and hideous rites of her nuptials. 

Fabiola inquired after Sebastian with such tender solicitude, 
that Irene doubted not that she was a Christian. The first 
few times she contented herself with receiving intelligence at 
the door, and putting into the hands of Sebastian’s hostess a 
large sum towards the expenses of his recovery ; but after two 
days, when he was improving, she was courteously invited to 
enter ; and, for the first time in her life, she found herself con- 
sciously in the bosom of a Christian family. 

Irene, we are told, was the widow of Castulus, one of the 
Chromatian band of converts. Her husband had just suffered 
death; but she remained still, unnoticed, in the apartments 
held by him in the palace. Two daughters lived with her ; and 
a marked difference in their behaviour soon struck Fabiola, as 
she became familiar with them. One evidently thought Sebas- 
tian’s presence an intrusion, and seldom or never approached 
him. Her behaviour to her mother was rude and haughty, 
her ideas all belonged to the common world, — she was selfish, 
light, and forward. The other, who was the younger, was a 
perfect contrast to her, — so gentle, docile, and affectionate ; so 
considerate about others, so devoted to her mother ; so kind 
and attentive to the poor patient. Irene herself was a type of 
the Christian matron, in the middle class of life. Fabiola did 
not find her intelligent, or learned, or witty, or highly polished ; 
but she saw her always calm, active, sensible, and honest Then 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


252 

she was clearly warm-hearted, generous, deeply affectionate, 
and sweetly patient. The pagan lady had never seen such a 
household, — so simple, frugal, and orderly. Nothing disturbed 
it, except the character of the elder sister. In a few days it 
was ascertained that the daily visitor was not a Christian ; but 
this caused no change in their treatment of her. Then she in 
her turn made a discovery, which mortified her — that the elder 
daughter was still heathen. All that she saw made a favour- 
able impression on her, and softened the hard crust of prejudice 
on her mind. For the present, however, her thoughts were all 
absorbed in Sebastian, whose recovery was slow. She formed 
plans with Irene for carrying him off to her Campanian villa, 
where she would have leisure to confer with him on religion. 
An insuperable obstacle, however, rose to this project. 

We will not attempt to lead our reader into the feelings of 
Sebastian. To have yearned after martyrdom, to have prayed 
for it, to have suffered all its pangs, to have died in it as far as 
human consciousness went, to have lost sight of this world, 
and now to awaken in it again, no martyr, but an ordinary way- 
faring man on probation, who might yet lose salvation, — was 
surely a greater trial than martyrdom itself. It was to be like 
a man who, in the midst of a stormy night, should try to 
cross an angry river, or tempestuous arm of the sea, and, after 
struggling for hours, and having his skiff twirled round and 
round and all but upset, should find himself relanded on the 
same side as he started from. Or, it was like St. Paul sent 
back to earth and to Satan’s buffets, after having heard the 
mysterious words which only one Intelligence can utter. Yet 
no murmur escaped him, no regret. He adored in silence the 
Divine Will, hoping that its purpose was only to give him the 
merit of a double martyrdom. For this second crown he so 
earnestly longed, that he rejected every proposal for flight and 
concealment. 

“ I have now,” he generously said, “ earned one privilege of 
a martyr, that of speaking boldly to the persecutors. This 
I will use the first day that I can leave my bed. Nurse me, 
therefore, well, that it may be the sooner.” 


THE CHURCII OF THE CATACOMBS 


253 


CHAPTER XXVII 

THE SECOND CROWN 

The memorable plot which the black slave betrayed to Corvinus, 
was one to which allusion has already been made, in the con- 
versation between Fulvius and his guardian. He wa* convinced 
from the blind martyr’s unsuspecting admissions that Agnes 
was a Christian, and he believed he had now two strings to his 
bow ; either he could terrify her into marriage with himself, or 
he could destroy her, and obtain a good share of her wealth, 
by confiscation. He was nerved for the second alternative 
by the taunts and exhortations of Eurotas; but, despairing 
of obtaining another interview, he wrote her a respectful, but 
pressing letter, descriptive of his disinterested attachment to 
her, and entreating her to accept his suit. There was but the 
faintest hint at the end, that duty might compel him to take 
another course, if humble petition did not prevail. 

To this application he received a calm, well-bred, but 
unmistakable refusal ; a stern, final, and hopeless rejection. 
But more, the letter stated in clear terms, that the writer was 
already espoused to the spotless Lamb, and could admit from 
no perishable being expressions of personal attachment. This 
rebuff steeled his heart against pity ; but he determined to act 
prudently. 

In the meantime, Fabiola, seeing the determination of 
Sebastian not to fly, conceived the romantic idea of saving 
him, in spite of himself, by extorting his pardon from the 
emperor. She did not know the depths of wickedness in man’s 
heart. She thought the tyrant might fume for a moment, but 
that he would never condemn a man twice to death. Some 
pity and mercy, she thought, must linger in his breast ; and 
her earnest pleading and tears would extract them, as heat 
does the hidden balsam from the hard wood. She accordingly 
sent a petition for an audience ; and knowing the covetousness 
of the man, presumed, as she said, to offer him a slight token 
of her own and her late father’s loyal attachment. This was 
a ring with jewels of rare beauty, and immense value. The 
present was accepted ; but she was merely told to attend with 
her memorial at the Palatine on the 20th, in common with 
other petitioners, and wait for the emperor’s descent by the 
great staircase, on his way to sacrifice. Unencouraging as was 
this answer, she resolved to risk anything, and do her best. 


FABIOLA ; OK, 


254 

The appointed day came; and Fabiola, in her mourning 
habits, worn both as a suppliant, and for her father’s death, 
took her stand in a row of far more wretched creatures than 
herself, mothers, children, sisters, who held petitions for mercy, 
for those dearest to them, now in dungeons or mines. She felt 
the little hope she had entertained die within her at the sight 
of so much wretchedness, too much for it all to expect favour. 
But fainter grew its last spark, at every step that the tyrant 
took down the marble stairs, though she saw her brilliant ring 
sparkling on his coarse hand. For on each step he snatched 
a paper from some sorrowful suppliant, looked at it scornfully, 
and either tore it up, or dashed it on the ground. Only here 
and there, he handed one to his secretary, a man scarcely less 
imperious than himself. 

It was now nearly Fabiola’s turn : the emperor was only two 
steps above her, and her heart beat violently, not from fear of 
man, but from anxiety about Sebastian’s fate. She would 
have prayed, had she known how, or to whom. Maxirruan 
was stretching out his hand to take a paper offered to him, 
when he drew back, and turned round, on hearing his name 
most unceremoniously and peremptorily called out. Fabiola 
looked up too ; for she knew the voice. 

Opposite to her, high in the white marble wall, she had 
observed an open window, corniced in yellow marble, which 
gave light to a back corridor leading to where Irene’s apart- 
ments were. She now looked up, guided by the voice, and in 
the dark panel of the window, a beautiful, but awful picture 
was seen. It was Sebastian, w r an and thin, who, with features 
almost etherealised, calm and stern, as if no longer capable 
of passion, or strong emotion, stood there before them ; his 
lacerated breast and arms appearing amidst the loose drapery 
he had thrown around him. For he had heard the familiar 
trumpet-notes, which told him of the emperor’s approach, and 
he had risen, and crept thus far, to greet him . 1 

“ Maximian ! ” he cried out, in a hollow, but distinct voice. 

“ Who art thou, sirrah ! that makest so free with thine em- 
peror’s name ? ” asked the tyrant, turning upon him. 

“ I am come as from the dead, to warn thee that the day of 
wrath and vengeance is fast approaching. Thou hast spilt the 
blood of God’s Saints upon the pavement of this city ; thou 
hast cast their holy bodies into the river, or flung them away 
upon the dunghills at the gates. Thou hast pulled down God’s 
temples, and profaned His altars, and rifled the inheritance of 
1 See the Acts of St. Sebastian. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 255 

His poor. For these, and thine own foul crimes and lewd- 
nesses, thine injustices and oppressions, thj covetousness and 
thy pride, God hath judged thee, and His wrath shall soon 
overtake thee ; and thou shalt die the death of the violent ; 
and God will give His Church an emperor after His own heart. 
And thy memory shall be accursed through the whole world 
till the end of time. Repent thee, while thou hast time, 
impious man ; and ask forgiveness of God, in the name of 
Him, the Crucified, whom thou hast persecuted till now.” 

Deep silence was held while these words were fully uttered. 
The emperor seemed under the influence of a paralysing awe ; 
for soon recognising Sebastian, he felt as if standing in the pre- 
sence of the dead. But quickly recovering himself and his 
passion, he exclaimed : “ Ho ! some of you, go round instantly 
and bring him before me ” (he did not like to pronounce his 
name). “ Hyphax here ! Where is Hyphax ? I saw him just 
now.” 

But the Moor had at once recognised Sebastian, and run off 
to his quarters. “ Ha ! he is gone, I see ; then here, you dolt, 
what’s your name ? ” (addressing Corvinus, who was attending 
his father), “go to the Numidian court, and summon Hyphax 
here directly.” 

With a heavy heart Corvinus went on his errand. Hyphax 
had told his tale, and put his men in order of defence. Only 
one entrance at the end of the court was left open ; and when 
the messenger had reached it, he durst not advance. Fifty 
men stood along each side of the space, with Hyphax and 
Jubala at the opposite end Silent and immovable, with their 
dark chests and arms bare, each with his arrow fixed, and 
pointed to the door, and the string ready drawn, they looked 
like an avenue of basalt statues leading to an Egyptian temple. 

“ Hyphax,” said Corvinus, in a tremulous voice, “ the em- 
peror sends for you.” 

“ Tell his majesty respectfully from me,” replied the African, 
“ that my men have sworn, that no man passes that threshold, 
coming in, or going out, without receiving, through his breast 
or his back, a hundred shafts into his heart ; until the emperor 
shall have sent us a token of forgiveness for every offence.” 

Corvinus hastened back with this message, and the emperor 
received it with a laugh. They were men with whom he 
could not afford to quarrel ; for he relied on them in battle, 
or insurrection, for picking out the leaders. “The cunning 
rascals ! ” he exclaimed. “ There, take that trinket to Hy- 
phax’s black spouse.” And he gave him Fabiola’s splendid 




256 fabiola; or, 

ring. He hastened back, delivered his gracious embassy, and 
threw the ring across. In an instant every bow dropt, and 
every string relaxed. Jubala, delighted, sprang forward and 
caught the ring. A heavy blow from her husband’s fist felled 
her to the ground, and was greeted with a shout of applause. 
The savage seized the jewel ; and the woman rose, to fear that 
she had only exchanged one slavery for a worse. 

Hyphax screened himself behind the imperial command. 
“ If,” he said, “you had allowed us to send an arrow through 
his head or heart, all would have been straight. As it was, we 
are not responsible.” 

“ At any rate, I will myself see my work done properly this 
time,” said Maximian. “Two of you fellows with clubs come 
here.” 

Two of his attendant executioners came from behind ; Sebas- 
tian, scarcely able to stand, was also there, mild and intrepid. 
“Now, my men,” said the barbarian, “I must not have any 
blood spilt on these stairs ; so you knock the life out of him 
with your cudgels ; make clean work of it. Madam, what is 
your petition?” — stretching out his hand to Fabiola, whom 
he recognised, and so addressed more respectfully. She was 
horrified and disgusted, and almost fainting at the sight before 
her ; so she said, “ Sire, I fear it is too late ! ” 

“ Why too late ? ” looking at the paper. A flash came from 
his eye, as he said to her : “ What ! You knew that Sebastian 
was alive ? Are you a Christian ? ” 

“ No, sire,” she replied. Why did the denial almost dry up 
in her throat ? She could not for her life have said she was 
anything else. Ah ! Fabiola, thy day is not far off. 

“But, as you said just now,” replied the emperor, more 
serene, returning her petition, “ I fear it is too late ; I think 
that blow must have been the ictus gratiosus .” 1 

“ I feel faint, sire,” said she respectfully ; “ may I retire ? ” 

“ By all means. But, by the bye, I have to thank you for 
the beautiful ring which you sent, and which I have given to 
Hyphax’s wife ” (lately her own slave !). “ It will look more 

brilliant on a black hand than even on mine. Adieu ! ” and 
he kissed his hand with a wicked smile, as if there were no 
martyr’s body near to witness against him. He was right : a 
heavy blow on the head had proved fatal ; and Sebastian was 
safe where he had so longed to be. He bore with him a double 
palm, and received a twofold crown. Yet still, an ignominious 

] The coup de grace, the blow by which culprits were “ put out of their 
pain.” Breaking the legs of the crucified was considered an ictus gratiosus . 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 

end before the world; beaten to death without ceremony, 
while the emperor conversed. How much of martyrdom is in 
its disgrace ! Woe to us when we know that our sufferings 
earn us honour ! 

The tyrant, seeing his work completed, ordered that Sebastian 
at least should not be cast into the Tiber nor on a dunghill. 
“ Put plenty of weights to his body,” he added, “ and throw it 
into the Cloaca , 1 to rot there, and be the food of vermin. The 
Christians at least shall not have it.” This was done ; and the 
Saint’s Acts inform us, that in the night he appeared to the 
holy matron Lucina, and directed her where to find his sacred 
remains. She obeyed his summons, and they were buried with 
honour where now stands his basilica. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

THE CRITICAL DAY: ITS FIRST PART 

There are critical days in the life of man and of mankind. 
Not merely the days of Marathon, of Cannae, or of Lepanto, 
in which a different result might have influenced the social or 
political fate of mankind. But it is probable that Columbus 
could look back upon not only the day, but the precise hour, 
the decision of which secured to the world all that he taught 
and gave it, and to himself the singular place which he holds 
among its worthies. And each of us, little and insignificant as 
he may be, has had his critical day ; his day of choice, which 
has decided his fate through life ; his day of Providence, which 
altered his position or his relations to others ; his day of grace, 
when the spiritual conquered the material. In whatever way 
it has been, every soul, like Jerusalem , 2 has had its day. 

And so with Fabiola, has not all been working up towards 
a crisis ? Emperor and slave, father and guest, the good and 
the wicked, Christian and heathen, rich and poor; then life 
and death, joy and sorrow, learning and simplicity, silence and 
conversation, have they not all come as agents, pulling at her 
mind in opposite ways, yet all directing her noble and generous, 
though haughty and impetuous, soul one way, as the breeze 
and the rudder struggle against one another, only to determine 
the ship’s single path ? By what shall the resolution of these 

1 The great sewer of Rome. 

2 “ If thou hadst known, and in this thy day,” &c. — St. Luke xix. 42. 

R 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


258 

contending forces be determined ? That rests not with man ; 
wisdom, not philosophy, can decide. We have been engaged 
with events commemorated on the 20th of January ; let the 
reader look, and see what comes on the following day in his 
calendar, and he will agree it must be an important day in our 
little narrative. 

From the audience, Fabiola retired to the apartments of 
Irene, where she found nothing but desolation and sorrow. 
She sympathised fully with the grief around her, but she saw 
and felt that there was a difference between her affliction and 
theirs. There was a buoyancy about them ; there was almost 
an exultation breaking out through their distress ; their clouds 
were sunlit and brightened at times. Hers was a dead and 
sullen, a dull and heavy gloom, as if she had sustained a hope- 
less loss. Her search after Christianity, as associated with 
anything amiable or intelligent, seemed at an end. Her 
desired teacher, or informant, was gone. When the crowd 
had moved away from the palace, she took affectionate leave 
of the widow and her daughters ; but, some way or other, she 
could not like the heathen one as she loved her sister. 

She sat alone at home, and tried to read; she took up 
volume after volume of favourite works on Death, on Fortitude, 
on Friendship, on Virtue ; and every one of them seemed in- 
sipid, unsound, and insincere. She plunged into a deeper and a 
deeper melancholy, which lasted till towards evening, when she 
was disturbed by a letter being put into her hand. The Greek 
slave, Graja, who brought it in, retired to the other end of the 
room, alarmed and perplexed by what she witnessed. For her 
mistress had scarcely glanced over the note, than she leapt up 
wildly from her seat, threw her hair into disorder with her 
hands, which she pressed, as in agony, on her temples, stood 
thus for a moment, looking up with an unnatural stare in her 
eyes, and then sank heavily down again on her chair with a 
deep groan. Thus she remained for some minutes, holding 
the letter in both her hands, with her arms relaxed, apparently 
unconscious. 

“ Who brought this letter ? ” she then asked, quite collected. 

a A soldier, madam,” answered the maid. 

“ Ask him to come here.” 

While her errand was being delivered, she composed herself, 
and gathered up her hair. As soon as the soldier appeared 
she held this brief dialogue 

“ Whence do you come ? ” 

“ I am on guard at the Tullian prison.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


259 


“ Who gave you the letter ? ” 

“ The Lady Agnes herself.” 

“ On what cause is the poor child there ? ” 

“ On the accusation of a man named Fulvius, for being a 
Christian.” 

“ For nothing else ? ” 

“ For nothing, I am sure.” 

“ Then we shall soon set that matter right. I can give 
witness to the contrary. Tell her I will come presently ; and 
take this for your trouble.” 

The soldier retired, and Fabiola was left alone. When 
there was something to do, her mind was at once energetic 
and concentrated, though afterwards the tenderness of woman- 
hood might display itself the more painfully. She wrapped 
herself close up, proceeded alone to the prison, and was at once 
conducted to the separate cell, which Agnes had obtained, in 
consideration of her rank, backed by her parents’ handsome 
largitions. 

“ What is the meaning of this, Agnes ? ” eagerly inquired 
Fabiola, after a warm embrace. 

“ I was arrested a few hours ago, and brought hither.” 

“ And is Fulvius fool enough, as well as scoundrel, to trump 
up an accusation against you, which five minutes will confute ? 
I will go to Tertullus myself, and contradict his absurd charge 
at once.” 

“ What charge, dearest ? ” 

“ Why, that you are a Christian.” 

“ And so I am, thank God ! ” replied Agnes, making on her- 
self the sign of the cross. 

The announcement did not strike Fabiola like a thunderbolt, 
nor rouse her, nor stagger her, nor perplex her. Sebastian’s 
death had taken all edge or heaviness from it. She had found 
that faith existing in what she had considered the type of every 
manly virtue ; she was not surprised to find it in her, whom 
she had loved as the very model of womanly perfection. The 
simple grandeur of that child’s excellence, her guileless inno- 
cence, and unexcepting kindness, she had almost worshipped. 
It made Fabiola’s difficulties less, it brought her problem nearer 
to a solution, to find two such peerless beings to be not mere 
chance-grown plants, but springing from the same seed. She 
bowed her head in a kind of reverence for the child, and asked 
her, “How long have you been so ? ” 

“ All my life, dear Fabiola ; I sucked the faith, as we say, 
with my mother’s milk, 


26 o 


fabiola; or, 


“ And why did you conceal it from me ? ” 

“ Because I saw your violent prejudices against us ; how 
you abhorred us as practisers of the most ridiculous super- 
stitions, as perpetrators of the most odious abominations. I 
perceived how you contemned us as unintellectual, uneducated, 
unphilosophical, and unreasonable. You would not hear a 
word about us ; and the only object of hatred to your generous 
mind was the Christian name.” 

“ True, dearest Agnes ; yet I think that had I known that 
you or Sebastian was a Christian, I could not have hated it. 
I could have loved anything in you.” 

“You think so now, Fabiola; but you know not the force 
of universal prejudice, the weight of falsehood daily repeated. 
How many noble minds, fine intellects, and loving hearts have 
they enslaved, and induced to believe us to be all that we are 
not, something even worse than the worst of others ! ” 

“ Well, Agnes, it is selfish in me to argue thus with you in 
your present position. You will of course compel Fulvius to 
prove that you are a Christian.” 

“ Oh no ! dear Fabiola ; I have already confessed it, and 
intend to do so again publicly in the morning.” 

“ In the morning ! — what, to-morrow ? ” asked Fabiola, 
shocked at the idea of anything so immediate. 

“ Yes, to-morrow. To prevent any clamour or disturbance 
about me (though I suspect few people will care much), I 
am to be interrogated early, and summary proceedings will be 
taken. Is not that good news, dear ? ” asked Agnes eagerly, 
seizing her cousin’s hands. And then putting on one of her 
ecstatic looks, she exclaimed, “ Behold, what I have long 
coveted, I already see ; what I have hoped for, I hold safe ; 
to Him alone I feel already associated in heaven, whom here 
on earth I have loved with all devotedness . 1 Oh ! is He not 
beautiful, Fabiola, lovelier far than the angels who surround 
Him ! How sweet His smile ! how mild His eye ! how bland 
the whole expression of His face ! And that sweetest and most 
gracious lady, who ever accompanies Him, our Queen and Mis- 
tress, who , loves Him alone, how winningly doth she beckon 
me forward to join her train ! I ' come ! I come ! They are 
departed, Fabiola ; but they return early for me to-morrow ; 
early, mind, and we part no more.” 

Fabiola felt her own heart swell and heave, as if a new 

1 “ Ecce quod concupivi jam video, quod speravi jam teneo ; ipsi sum 
juncta in ccelis quern in terris posita tota devotione dilexi.” — Office of St. 
Agnes. 



u Pancratrus was still standing in the same place, apparently not heeding the 
movements of his enemy.” — Page 236. 






THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


26l 


element were entering in. She knew not what it was, but it 
seemed something better than a mere human emotion. She 
had not yet heard the name of Grace. Agnes, however, saw 
the favourable change in her spirit, and inwardly thanked God 
for it. She begged her cousin to return before dawn to her, 
for their final farewell. 

At this same time a consultation was being held at the house 
of the Prefect, between that worthy functionary and his worthier 
son. The reader had better listen to it, to learn its purport. 

“ Certainly,” said the magistrate, “ if the old sorceress was 
right in one thing, she ought to be in the other. I will answer, 
from experience, how powerful is wealth in conquering any 
resistance.” 

“And you will allow, too,” rejoined Corvinus, “from the 
enumeration we have made, that among the competitors for 
Fabiola’s hand, there has not been one who could not justly 
be rather called an aspirant after her fortune.” 

“ Yourself included, my dear Corvinus.” 

“Yes, so far ; but not if I succeed in offering her, with 
myself, the Lady Agnes’s great wealth.” 

“ And in a manner, too, methinks, that will more easily 
gain upon what I hear of her generous and lofty disposition. 
Giving her that wealth independent of conditions, and then 
offering yourself to her, will put her under one of two obliga- 
tions, either to accept you as her husband, or throw you back 
the fortune.” 

“ Admirable, father ! I never saw the second alternative 
before. Do you think there is no possibility of securing it 
except through her ? ” 

“ None whatever. Fulvius, of course, will apply for his 
share ; and the probability is, that the emperor will declare he 
intends to take it all for himself. For he hates Fulvius. But 
if I propose a more popular and palpably reasonable plan, of 
giving the property to the nearest relation, who worships the 
gods — this Fabiola does, don’t she ? ” 

“ Certainly, father.” 

“ I think he will embrace it : while I am sure there is no 
chance of his making a free gift to me. The proposal from a 
judge would enrage him.” 

“ Then how will you manage it, father.” 

“ I will have an imperial rescript prepared during the night, 
ready for signature ; and I will proceed immediately after the 
execution to the palace, magnify the unpopularity which is sure 
to follow it, lay it all on Fulvius, and show the emperor how his 


262 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


granting the property to the next in the settlement of it, will 
redound greatly to his credit and glory. He is as vain as he 
is cruel and rapacious ; and one vice must be made to fight 
another.” 

“ Nothing could be better, my dear father ; I shall retire to 
rest with an easy mind. To-morrow will be the critical day of 
my life. All my future depends upon whether I am accepted 
or rejected.” 

“ I only wish,” added Tertullus, rising, “ that I could have 
seen this peerless lady, and sounded the depths of her philo- 
sophy, before your final bargain was struck.” 

“ Fear not, father : she is well worthy of being your daughter- 
in-law. Yes, to-morrow is indeed the turning-point in my 
fortunes.” 

Even Corvinus can have his critical day. Why not Fabiola ? 

While this domestic interview was going on, a conference 
was taking place between Fulvius and his amiable uncle. The 
latter, entering late, found his nephew sitting sullen and alone 
in the house, and thus accosted him — 

“ Well, Fulvius, is she secured? ” 

“ She is, uncle, as fast as bars and walls can make her ; but 
her spirit is free and independent as ever.” 

“ Never mind that : sharp steel makes short work of spirit. 
Is her fate certain ? and are its consequences sure ? ” 

“Why, if nothing else happens, the first is safe; the second 
have still to encounter imperial caprice. But I own I feel pain 
and remorse at sacrificing so young a life, and for an insecure 
result.” 

“Come, Fulvius,” said the old man sternly, looking as cold 
as a grey rock in the morning mist ; “no softness, I hope, in 
this matter. Do you remember what day is to-morrow ? ” 

“Yes, the twelfth before the calends of February.” 1 

“ The critical day always for you. It was on this day that to 
gain another’s wealth you committed ” 

“ Peace, peace ! ” interrupted Fulvius, in agony. “ Why 
will you always remind me of everything I most wish to 
forget ? ” 

“ Because of this : you wish to forget yourself, and that must 
not be. I must take from you every pretence to be guided by 
conscience, virtue, or even honour. It is folly to affect com- 
passion for any one’s life, who stands in the way of your fortune, 
after what you did to her” 

Fulvius bit his lip in silent rage, and covered his crimson 
1 January 21. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 263 

face with his hands. Eurotas roused him by saying : “ Well 
then, to-morrow is another, and probably a final critical day for 
you. Let us calmly weigh its prospects. You will go to the 
emperor, and ask for your rightful share in the confiscated 
property. Suppose it is granted ? ” 

“ I will sell it as quick as possible, pay my debts, and retire 
to some country where my name has never been heard.” 

“ Suppose your claims are rejected ? ” 

“ Impossible, impossible ! ” exclaimed Fulvius, racked by 
the very idea ; “ it is my right, hardly earned. It cannot be 
denied me.” 

“ Quietly, my young friend ; let us discuss the matter coolly. 
Remember our proverb : 4 From the stirrup to the saddle there 
has been many a fall.’ Suppose only that your rights are 
refused you.” 

“ Then I am a ruined man. I have no other prospect 
before me of retrieving my fortunes here. Still I must fly 
hence.” 

“ Good ; and what do you owe at Janus’s arch ? ” 1 

“ A good couple of hundred sestertia , 2 between principal 
and compound interest at fifty per cent., to that unconscionable 
Jew Ephraim.” 

“ On what security ? ” 

“ On my sure expectation of this lady’s estates.” 

“And if you are disappointed, do you think he will let 
you fly ? ” 

“ Not if he knows it, most assuredly. But we must be 
prepared from this moment for any emergency; and that 
with the utmost secrecy.” 

“ Leave that to me, Fulvius ; you see how eventful the issue 
of to-morrow may be to you, or rather of to-day ; for morning 
is approaching. Life or death to you hang upon it ; it is the 
great day of your existence. Courage, then, or rather an in- 
flexible determination, steel you to work out its destiny ! ” 

1 In or near the Forum stood several arches dedicated to Janus, and 
called simply by his name, near which usurers or money-lenders kept 
their posts. 

2 ,61600. 


264 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


CHAPTER XXIX 

^the ^Sme day: its second part 


The day is not yet dawning, and nevertheless we speak of 
having reached its second part. How may this be ? Gentle 
reader, have we not led you to its first vespers, divided as 
they are between Sebastian of yesterday, and Agnes of to-day ? 
Have not the two sung them together, without jealousy, and 
with fraternal impartiality, the one from the heaven which he 
ascended in the morning, the other from the dungeon into 
which she descended in the evening ? Glorious Church of 
Christ ! great -ifi the unclashing combination of thy unity, 
stretching from heaven to beneath the earth, wherever exists 
a prison-house of the just. 

From his lodgings Fulvius went out into the night air, which 
was crisp and sharp, to cool his blood, and still his throbbing 
brows. He wandered about almost without any purpose ; but 
found himself imperceptibly drawing nearer and nearer to the 
Tullian prison. As he was literally without affection, what 
could be his attraction thither? It was a strangely com- 
pounded feeling, made up of as bitter ingredients as ever 
filled the poisoner’s cup. There was gnawing remorse ; there 
was baffled pride; there was goading avarice; there was 
humbling shame ; there was a terrible sense of the approach- 
ing consummation of his villany. It was true, he had been re- 
jected, scorned, baffled by a mere child, while her fortune was 
necessary for his rescue from beggary and death — so at least 
he reasoned ; yet he would still rather have her hand than her 
head. Her murder appeared revoltingly atrocious to him, 
unless absolutely inevitable. So he would give her another 
chance. 

He was now at the prison-gate, of which he possessed the 
watchword. He pronounced it, entered ; and, at his desire, 
was conducted to his victim’s cell. She did not flutter, nor 
run into a corner, like, a bird into whose cage the hawk has 
found entrance : calm and intrepid she stood before him. 

“ Respect me here, Fulvius, at least,” she gently said ; “ I 
have but a few hours to live : let theirv.be spent in peace.” 

“ Madam,” he replied, “ I have come to lengthen them, if 
you please, to years ; and, instead of peace, I offer happi- 
ness.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 26 S 

“ Surely, sir, if I understand you, the time is past for this 
sad vanity. Thus to address one whom you have delivered 
over to death is at best a mockery.” 

“ It is not so, gentle lady ; your fate is in your own hands ; 
only your own obstinacy will give you over to death. I have 
come to renew once more my offer, and with it that of life. 
It is your last chance.” 

“ Have I not before told you that I am a Christian, and 
that I would forfeit a thousand lives rather than betray my 
faith ? ” 

“ But now I ask you no longer to do this. The gates of 
the prison are yet open to me. Fly with me ; and, in spite of 
the imperial decrees, you shall be a Christian, and yet live.” 

“ Then have I not clearly told you that I am already 
espoused to my Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, and that to 
Him alone I keep eternal faith ? ” 

“ Folly and madness ! Persevere in it till to-morrow, and 
that may be awarded to you which you fear more than death, 
and which will drive this illusion for ever from your mind.” 

“ I fear nothing for Christ. For know, that I have an angel 
ever guarding me, who will not suffer his Master’s handmaid 
to suffer scorn . 1 But now cease this unworthy importunity, 
and leave me the last privilege of the condemned — solitude.” 

Fulvius had been gradually losing patience, and could no 
longer restrain his passion. Rejected again, baffled once 
more by a child, this time with the sword hanging over her 
neck ! A flame irrepressible broke out from the smouldering 
heat within him ; and, in an instant, the venomous ingredients 
that we have described as mingled in his heart, were distilled 
into one black, solitary drop — hatred. With flashing look 
and furious gesture he broke forth — 

“ Wretched woman, I give thee one more opportunity of 
rescuing thyself from destruction. Which wilt thou have, life 
with me, or death ? ” 

“ Death even I will choose for her, rather than life with a 
monster like thee ! ” exclaimed a voice just within the door. 

“ She shall have it,” he rejoined, clenching his fist, and 
darting a mad look at the new speaker; “and thou, too, 
if again thou darest to fling thy baneful shadow across my 
path.” 

Fabiola was alone for the last time with Agnes. She had 
been for some minutes unobserved watching the contest, 

1 “ Mecum enim habeo custodem corporis mei, Angelum Domini.” — The 
Brevidry , 


266 


FABTOLA ; OR, 


between what would have appeared to her, had she been a 
Christian, an angel of light and a spirit of darkness ; and truly 
Agnes looked like the first, if human creature ever did. In 
preparation for her coming festival of full espousals to the 
Lamb, when she should sign her contract of everlasting love, 
as He had done, in blood, she had thrown over the dark gar- 
ments of her mourning a white and spotless bridal robe. In 
the midst of that dark prison, lighted by a solitary lamp, she 
looked radiant and almost dazzling; while her tempter, wrapped 
up in his dark cloak, crouching down to rush out of the low door 
of the dungeon, looked like a black and vanquished demon, 
plunging into an abyss beneath. 

Then Fabiola looked into her countenance, and thought she 
had never seen it half so sweet. No trace of anger, of fear, of 
flurry, or agitation, was there ; no paleness, no flush, no alter- 
nations of hectic excitement and pallid depression. Her eyes 
beamed with more than their usual mild intelligence ; her 
smile was as placid and cheerful as it ever was, when they 
discoursed together. Then there was a noble air about her, 
a greatness of look and manner, which Fabiola would have 
compared to that mien and stateliness, and that ambrosial 
atmosphere by which, in poetical mythology, a being of a 
higher sphere was recognised on earth . 1 It was not inspira- 
tion, for it was passionless ; but it was such expression and 
manner, as her highest conceptions of virtue and intellect, 
combined in the soul, might be supposed to stamp upon 
the outward form. Hence her feelings passed beyond love 
into a higher range ; they were more akin to reverence. 

Agnes took one of her hands in each of her own, crossed 
them upon her own calm bosom, and looking into her face 
with a gaze of blandest earnestness, said — 

“ Fabiola, I have one dying request to make you. You 
have never refused me any : I am sure you will not this.” 

“ Speak not thus to me, dearest Agnes ; you must not 
request ; you command me now.” 

“ Then promise me, that you will immediately apply your 
mind to master the doctrines of Christianity. I know you 
will embrace them ; and then you will no longer be to me 
what you are now.” 

“ And what is that ? ” 

“Dark, dark, dearest Fabiola. When I look upon you 
thus, I see in you a noble intellect, a generous disposition, 
an affectionate heart, a cultivated mind, a fine moral feeling, 
1 “ Incessu patuit Dea,” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 2 67 

and a virtuous life. What can be desired more in woman ? 
and yet over all these splendid gifts there hangs a cloud, to 
my eyes, of gloomy shadow, the shade of death. Drive it 
away, and all will be lightsome and bright.” 

“ I feel it, dear Agnes — I feel it. Standing before you, 1 
seem to be as a black spot compared to your brightness. And 
how, embracing Christianity, shall I become light like you ? ” 
“You must pass, Fabiola, through the torrent that sunders 
us ” (Fabiola started, recollecting her dream). “ Waters of 
refreshment shall flow over your body, and oil of gladness 
shall embalm your flesh ; and the soul shall be washed clean 
as driven snow, and the heart be softened as the babe’s. 
From that bath you will come forth a new creature, born 
again to a new and immortal life.” 

“ And shall I lose all that you have but just now prized in 
me ? ” asked Fabiola, somewhat downcast. 

“ As the gardener,” answered the martyr, “ selects some 
hardy and robust, but unprofitable plant, and on it engrafts 
but a small shoot of one that is sweet and tender, and the 
flowers and fruits of this belong to the first, and yet deprive it 
of no grace, no grandeur, no strength that it had before, so 
will the new life you shall receive ennoble, elevate, and sanctify 
(you can scarcely understand this word) the valuable gifts of 
nature and education which you already possess. What a 
glorious being Christianity will make you, Fabiola ! ” 

“ What a new world you are leading me to, dear Agnes ! 
Oh, that you were not leaving me outside its very threshold ! ” 
“ Hark ! ” exclaimed Agnes, in an ecstasy of joy. “ They 
come, they come ! You hear the measured tramp of the 
soldiers in the gallery. They are the bridesmen coming to 
summon me. But I see on high the white-robed bridesmaids 
borne on the bright clouds of morning, and beckoning me for- 
ward. Yes, my lamp is trimmed, and I go forth to meet the 
Bridegroom. Farewell, Fabiola, weep not for me. Oh, that 
I could make you feel, as I do, the happiness of dying for 
Christ ! And now I will speak a word to you which I never 
have addressed to you before — God bless you ! ” And she 
made the sign of the Cross on Fabiola’s forehead. An 
embrace, convulsive on Fabiola’s part, calm and tender on 
Agnes’s, was their last earthly greeting. The one hastened 
home, filled with a new and generous purpose ; the other 
resigned herself to the shame-stricken guard. 

Over the first part of the martyr’s trials we cast a veil of 
silence, though ancient Fathers, and the Church in her offices, 


268 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


dwell upon it, as doubling her crown . 1 Suffice it to say, that 
her angel protected her from harm ; 2 and that the purity of 
her presence converted a den of infamy into a holy and lovely 
sanctuary . 3 It was still early in the morning when she stood 
again before the tribunal of the Prefect, in the Roman Forum ; 
unchanged and unscathed, without a blush upon her smiling 
countenance, or a pang of sorrow in her innocent heart. Only 
her unshorn hair, the symbol of virginity, which had been let 
loose, flowed down, in golden waves, upon her snow-white 
dress . 4 

It was a lovely morning. Many will remember it to have 
been a beautiful day on its anniversary, as they have walked 
out of the Nomentan Gate, now the Porta Pia, towards the 
church which bears our virgin-martyr’s name, to see blessed 
upon her altar the two lambs, from whose wool are made the 
palliums sent by the Pope to the archbishops of his com- 
munion. Already the almond-trees are hoary, not with frost, 
but with blossoms; the earth is being loosened round the 
vines, and spring seems latent in the swelling buds, which are 
watching for the signal from the southern breeze to burst and 
expand . 5 The atmosphere, rising into a cloudless sky, has 
just that temperature that one loves, of a sun, already vigorous, 
not heating, but softening, the slightly frosty air. Such we 
have frequently experienced St. Agnes’s day, together with 
joyful thousands, hastening to her shrine. 

The judge was sitting in the open Forum, and a sufficient 
crowd formed a circle round the charmed space, which few, 
save Christians, loved to enter. Among the spectators were 
two whose appearance attracted general attention ; they stood 
opposite each other, at the ends of the semicircle formed by 

1 “ Duplex corona est prgestita martyri.” — Prudentius. 

2 “ Ingressa Agnes turpitudinis locum, Angelum Domini prseparatum 
invenit.” — The Breviary. 

3 The Church of St. Agnes in the Piazza Navona, one of the most 
beautiful in Rome. 

“ Cui posse soli Cunctipotens dedit 
Castum vel ipsum reddere fornicem 

Nil non pudicum est, quod pia visere 
Dignaris, almo vel pede tangere.” 

— Prudentius . 

4 “ Non intorto crine caput comptum.” Her head not dressed with 
braided hair. St. Ambrose , lib. i. de Virgin, c. 2. See Prudentius’s 
description of St. Eulalia, irepi creep, hymn. iii. 31. 

c “ Solvitur acris hyems, grata vice veris et Favoni.” — Horace. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 269 

the multitude. One was a youth, enveloped in his toga, with 
a slouching hat over his eyes, so that his features could not be 
distinguished. The other was a lady of aristocratic mien, 
tall and erect, such as one does not expect to meet on such 
an occasion. Wrapped close about her, and so ample as to 
veil her from head to foot, like the beautiful ancient statue, 
known among artists by the name of Modesty , 1 she had a 
scarf or mantle of Indian workmanship, woven in richest 
pattern of crimson, purple, and gold, a garment truly imperial, 
and less Suitable than even female presence to this place of 
doom and blood. A slave or servant of superior class attended 
her, carefully veiled also, like her mistress. The lady’s mind 
seemed intent on one only object, as she stood immovable, 
leaning with her elbow on a marble post. 

Agnes was introduced by her guards into the open space, 
and stood intrepid, facing the tribunal. Her thoughts seemed 
to be far away ; and she took no notice even of those two who, 
till she appeared, had been objects of universal observation. 

“ Why is she unfettered ? ” asked the Prefect angrily. 

“ She does not need it, she walks so readily,” answered 
Catulus ; “ and she is so young.” 

“ But she is obstinate as the oldest. Put manacles on her 
hands at once.” 

The executioner turned over a quantity of such prison 
ornaments, — to Christian eyes really such, — and at length 
selected a pair as light and small as he could find, and placed 
them round her wrists. Agnes playfully, and with a smile, 
shook her hands, and they fell, like St. Paul’s viper, clattering 
at her feet . 2 

“ They are the smallest we have, sir,” said the softened 
executioner; “one so young ought to wear other bracelets.” 

“ Silence, man ! ” rejoined the exasperated judge, who, turn- 
ing to the prisoner, said, in a blander tone — 

“Agnes, I pity thy youth, thy station, and the bad education 
thou hast received. I desire, if possible, to save thee. Think 
better while thou hast time. Renounce the false and pernicious 
maxims of Christianity, obey the Imperial Edicts, and sacrifice 
to the gods.” 

“ It is useless,” she replied, “ to tempt me longer. My 
resolution is unalterable. I despise thy false divinities, and 
can only love and serve the one living God. Eternal Ruler, 
open wide the heavenly gates, until lately closed to man. 
Blessed Christ, call to Thee the soul that cleaveth unto Thee : 

1 Pudicitia. 2 St. Ambrose* ubi supra. 


270 


fabiola; or, 


victim first to Thee by virginal consecration; now to Thy 
Father by martyrdom’s immolation.” 1 

“ I waste time, I see,” said the impatient Prefect, who saw 
symptoms of compassion rising in the multitude. “ Secretary, 
write the sentence. We condemn Agnes, for contempt of the 
Imperial Edicts, to be punished by the sword.” 

“ On what road, and at what milestone, shall the judgment 
be executed ?” 2 asked the headsman. 

“ Let it be carried into effect at once,” was the reply. 

Agnes raised for one moment her hands and eyes to heaven, 
then calmly knelt down. With her own hands she drew 
forward her silken hair over her head, and exposed her neck 
to the blow . 3 A pause ensued, for the executioner was trem- 
bling with emotion, and could not wield his sword . 4 As the 
child knelt alone, in her white robe, with her head inclined, 
her arms modestly crossed upon her bosom, and her amber 
locks hanging almost to the ground, and veiling her features, 
she might not unaptly have been compared to some rare plant, 
of which the slender stalk, white as the lily, bent with the 
luxuriancy of its golden blossom. 

The judge angrily reproved the executioner for his hesita- 
tion, and bid him at once do his duty. The man passed the 
back of his rough left hand across his eyes as he raised his 
sword. It was seen to flash for an instant in the air; and the 
next moment, flower and stem were lying scarcely displaced 
on the ground. It might have been taken for the prostration 
of prayer, had not the white robe been in that minute dyed 
into a rich crimson — washed in the blood of the Lamb. 

The man on the judge’s right hand had looked with un- 
flinching eye upon the stroke, and his lip curled in a wicked 
triumph over the fallen. The lady opposite had turned away 
her head, till the murmur, that follows a suppressed breath in 
a crowd, told her all was over. She then boldly advanced for- 
ward, unwound from round her person her splendid brocaded 
mantle, and stretched it, as a pall, over the mangled body. 

1 “ yEterne Rector, divide januas, 

Coeli, obserratas terrigenis prius, 

Ac te sequentem, Christe, animam voca, 

Cum virginalem, turn Patris hostiam.” 

— Prudentius , irepi <TT€(f). 14. 

2 This was the usual practice, to behead out of the gate, at the second, 
third, or fourth milestone ; but it is clear from Prudentius and other 
writers that St. Agnes suffered at the place of trial, of which we have 
other instances. 

3 Prudentius. 4 St. Ambrose. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


27I 

A burst of applause followed this graceful act of womanly 
feeling , 1 as the lady stood, now in the garb of deepest mourning, 
before the tribunal. 

“ Sir,” she said, in a tone clear and distinct, but full of 
emotion, “ grant me one petition. Let not the rude hands of 
your servants again touch and profane the hallowed remains of 
her whom I have loved more than anything on earth ; but let 
me bear them hence to the sepulchre of her fathers ; for she 
was noble as she was good.” 

Tertullus was manifestly irritated, as he replied, “ Madam, 
whoever you may be, your request cannot be granted. Catulus, 
see that the body be cast, as usual, into the river, or burnt.” 

“ I entreat you, sir,” the lady earnestly insisted, “ by every 
claim which female virtue has upon you, by any tear which a 
mother has shed over you, by every soothing word which a 
sister has ever spoken to you, in illness or sorrow ; by every 
ministration of their gentle hands, I implore you to grant my 
humble prayer. And if, when you return home this evening, 
you will be met at the threshold by daughters, who will kiss 
your hand, though stained with the blood of one whom you 
may feel proud if they resemble, be able to say to them, at 
least, that this slightest tribute to the maidenly delicacy which 
they prize, has not been refused.” 

Such common sympathy was manifested, that Tertullus, 
anxious to check it, a-sked her sharply — 

“ Pray, are you, too, a Christian ? ” 

She hesitated for one instant, then replied, “ No, sir, I am 
not ; but I own that if anything could make me one, it would 
be what I have seen this day.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Why, that to preserve the religion of the empire such beings 
as she whom you have slain ” (her tears interrupted her for a 
moment) “should have to die, while monsters who disgrace 
the shape and name of man should have to live and flourish. 
Oh, sir, you know not what you have blotted out from earth 
this day ! She was the purest, sweetest, holiest thing I ever 
knew upon it, the very flower of womanhood, though yet a 
child. And she might have lived yet, had she not scorned the 
proffered hand of a vile adventurer; who pursued her with 
his loathsome offers into the seclusion of her villa, into the 
sanctuary of her home, and even into the last retreat of her 

1 Prudentius mentions that a sudden fall of snow shrouded thus the body 
of St. Eulalia lying in the Forum. Ubi sup. 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


272 

dungeon. For this she died, that she would not endow with 
her wealth, and ennoble by her alliance, that Asiatic spy.” 

She pointed with calm scorn at Fulvius, who bounded 
forward, and exclaimed with fury : “ She lies, foully and calum- 
niously, sir. Agnes openly confessed herself a Christian.” 

“ Bear with me, sir,” replied the lady, with noble dignity, 
“ while I convict him ; and look on his face for proof of what 
I say. Didst thou not, Fulvius, early this morning, seek that 
gentle child in her cell, and deliberately tell her (for unseen, I 
heard you) that if she would but accept thy hand, not only 
wouldst thou save her life, but despising the imperial com- 
mands, secure her still remaining a Christian ? ” 

Fulvius stood, pale as death : stood, as one does for a 
moment who is shot through the heart, or struck by lightning. 
He looked like a man on whom sentence is going to be pro- 
nounced — not of death, but of eternal pillory, as the judge 
addressed him, saying — 

“ Fulvius, thy very look confirms this grievous charge. I 
could arraign thee on it, for thy head, at once. But take my 
counsel, begone hence for ever. Flee, and hide thyself, after 
such villany, from the indignation of all just men, and from the 
vengeance of the gods. Show not thy face again here, nor in 
the Forum, nor in any public place of Rome. If this lady 
pleases, even now I will take her deposition against thee. Pray, 
madam,” he asked most respectfully, “ may I have the honour 
of knowing your name ? ” 

“ Fabiola,” she replied. 

The judge was now all complacency, for he saw before him, 
he hoped, his future daughter-in-law. “ I have often heard of 
you, madam,” he said, “ and of your high accomplishments, 
and exalted virtues. You are, moreover, nearly allied to this 
victim of treachery, and have a right to claim her body. It is 
at your disposal.” This speech was interrupted at its beginning 
by a loud hiss and yell that accompanied Fulvius’s departure. 
He was pale with shame, terror, and rage. 

Fabiola gracefully thanked the Prefect, and beckoned to 
Syra, who attended her. The servant again made a signal to 
some one else ; and presently four slaves appeared bearing a 
lady’s litter. Fabiola would allow no one but herself and Syra 
to raise the relics from the ground, place them on the litter, 
and cover them with their precious pall. “ Bear this treasure 
to its own home,” she said, and followed as mourner with 
her maid. A little girl, all in tears, timidly asked if she might 
join them. “ Who art thou ? ” asked Fabiola. “ I am poor 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 273 

Emerentiana, her foster-sister,” replied the child; and Fabiola 
led her kindly by the hand. 

The moment the body was removed, a crowd of Christians, 
children, men, and women, threw themselves forward, with 
sponges and linen cloths, to gather up the blood. In vain did 
the guards fall on them, with whips, cudgels, and even with 
sharper weapons, so that many mingled their own blood with 
that of the martyr. When a sovereign, at his coronation, or on 
first entering his capital, throws, according to ancient custom, 
handfuls of gold and silver coins among the crowd, he does 
not create a more eager competition for his scattered treasures 
than there was among those primitive Christians for what they 
valued more than gold or precious stones, the ruby drops 
which a martyr had poured from his heart for his Lord But 
all respected the prior claim of one ; and here it was the deacon 
Reparatus, who, at risk of life, was present, phial in hand, to 
gather the blood of Agnes’s testimony; that it might be ap- 
pended, as a faithful seal, to the record of martyrdom on her 
tomb. 


CHAPTER XXX 

THE SAME DAY: ITS THIRD PART 

Tertullus hastened at once to the palace : fortunately or 
unfortunately, for these candidates for martyrdom. There he 
met Corvinus, with the prepared rescript, elegantly engrossed 
in unical , ’ that is, large capital letters. He had the privilege of 
immediate admission into the imperial presence ; and, as a 
matter of business, reported the death of Agnes, exaggerated 
the public feeling likely to be caused by it, attributed it all to 
the folly and mismanagement of Fulvius, whose worst guilt he 
did not disclose, for fear of having to try him, and thus bringing 
out what he was now doing ; depreciated the value of Agnes’s 
property, and ended by saying, that it would be a gracious act 
of clemency, and one sure to counteract unpopular feelings, to 
bestow it upon her relative, who by settlement was her next 
heir. He described Fabiola as a young lady of extraordinary 
intellect and wonderful learning, who was most zealously 
devoted to the worship of the gods, and daily offered sacrifice 
to the genius of the emperors. 

“ I know her,” said Maximian, laughing, as if at the recollec- 
tion of something very droll. ‘‘Poor thing! she sent me a 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


274 

splendid ring, and yesterday asked me for that wretched 
Sebastian’s life, just as they had finished cudgelling him to 
death.” And he laughed immoderately, then continued : “ Yes, 
yes, by all means ; a little inheritance will console her, no doubt, 
for the loss of that fellow. Let a rescript be made out, and I 
will sign it.” 

Tertullus produced the one prepared, saying he had fully relied 
on the emperor’s magnanimous clemency; and the imperial 
barbarian put a signature to it which would have disgraced a 
schoolboy The Prefect at once consigned it to his son. 

Scarcely had he left the palace, when Fulvius entered. He 
had been home to put on a proper court attire, and remove 
from his features, by the bath and the perfumer’s art, the 
traces of his morning’s passion. He felt a keen presentiment 
that he should be disappointed. Eurotas’s cool discussion 
of the preceding evening had prepared him ; the cross of all 
his designs, and his multiplied disappointments that. day, had 
strengthened this instinctive conviction. One woman, in- 
deed, seemed born to meet and baffle him whichever way he 
turned ; but, “ thank the gods,” he thought, “ she cannot be 
in my way here. She has this morning blasted my character 
for ever ; she cannot claim my rightful reward : she has made 
me an outcast ; it is not in her power to make me a beggar.” 
This seemed his only ground of hope. Despair, indeed, urged 
him forward ; and he determined to argue out his claims to the 
confiscated property of Agnes with the only competitor he 
could fear, the rapacious emperor himself. He might as w r ell 
risk his life over it, for if he failed, he was utterly ruined. 
After waiting some time, he entered the audience-hall, and 
advanced with the blandest smile that he could muster to the 
imperial feet. 

“What want you here?” was his first greeting. 

“ Sire,” he replied, “ I have come humbly to pray your royal 
justice to order my being put into immediate possession of 
my share of the Lady Agnes’s property. She has been con- 
victed of being a Christian upon my accusation, and she has 
just suffered the merited penalty of all who disobey the Imperial 
Edicts.” 

“ That is all quite right ; but we have heard how stupidly 
you mismanaged the whole business as usual, and have raised 
murmurings and discontent in the people against us. So, 
now, the sooner you quit our presence, palace, and city, the 
better for yourself. Do you understand ? We don’t usually 
give such warnings twice.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 275 

“ I will obey instantly every intimation of the supreme will. 
But I am almost destitute. Command what of right is mine 
to be delivered over to me, and I part immediately.” 

“ No more words,” replied the tyrant, “ but go at once. As 
to the property which you demand with so much pertinacity, 
you cannot have it. We have made over the whole of it, by 
an irrevocable rescript, to an excellent and deserving person, 
the Lady Fabiola.” 

Fulvius did not speak another word ; but kissed the emperor’s 
hand and slowly retired. He looked a ruined, broken man. 
He was only heard to say, as he passed out of the gate : 
“ Then, after all, she has made me a beggar too.” When he 
reached home, Eurotas, who read his answer in his nephew’s 
eye, was amazed at his calmness. 

“ I see,” he drily remarked, “it is all over.” 

“Yes; are your preparations made, Eurotas?” 

“Nearly so. I have sold the jewels, furniture, and slaves, 
at some loss ; but, with the trifle I had in hand, we have enough 
to take us safe to Asia. I have retained Stabio, as the most 
trusty of our servants ; he will carry our small travelling requi- 
sites on his horse. Two others are preparing for you and me. 
I have only one thing more to get for our journey, and then 
I am ready to start.” 

“ Pray what is that ? ” 

“The poison. I ordered it last night, but it will only be 
ready at noon.” 

“ What is that for ? ” asked Fulvius, with some alarm. 

“ Surely you know,” rejoined the other, unmoved. “ I am 
willing to make one more trial anywhere else ; but our bargain 
is clear ; my father’s family must not end in beggary. It must 
be extinguished in honour.” 

Fulvius bit his lip, and said, “Well, be it as you like, I am 
weary of life. Leave the house as soon as possible, for fear of 
Ephraim, and be with your horses at the third mile on the 
Latin gate soon after dusk. I will join you there. For I, too, 
have an important matter to transact before I start.” 

“And what is that?” asked Eurotas, with a rather keen 
curiosity. 

“ I cannot tell even you. But if I am not with you by two 
hours after sunset, give me up, and save yourself without me.” 

Eurotas fixed upon him his cold dark eye, with one of those 
looks which ever read Fulvius through ; to see if he could 
detect any lurking idea of escape from his gripe. But his look 
was cool and unusually open, and the old man asked no more. 


2 7 6 FABIOLA ; OR, 

While this dialogue was going on, Fulvius had been divesting 
himself of his court garments, and attiring himself in a travelling 
suit. So completely did he evidently prepare himself for his 
journey, without necessity of returning home, that he even 
took his weapons with him ; besides his sword, securing in 
his girdle, but concealed under his cloak, one of those curved 
daggers, of highest temper and most fatal form, which were 
only known in the East. 

Eurotas proceeded at once to the Numidian quarters in the 
palace, and asked for Jubala ; who entered with two small flasks 
of different sizes, and was just going to give some explanations, 
when her husband, half-drunk, half-furious, was seen approach- 
ing. Eurotas had just time to conceal the flasks in his belt, 
and slip a coin into her hand, when Hyphax came up. His 
wife had mentioned to him the offers which Eurotas had made 
to her before marriage, and had excited in his hot African 
blood a jealousy that amounted to hatred. The savage rudely 
thrust his wife out of the apartment, and would have picked a 
quarrel with the Syrian ; had not the latter, his purpose being 
accomplished, acted with forbearance, assured the archer-chief 
that he should never more see him, and retired. 

It is time, however, that we return to Fabiola. The reader 
is probably prepared to hear us say, that she returned home a 
Christian ; and yet it was not so. For what as yet did she 
know of Christianity, to be said to profess it ? In Sebastian and 
Agnes she had, indeed, willingly admired the virtue, unselfish, 
generous, and more than earthly, which now she was ready to 
attribute to that faith. She saw that it gave motives of actions, 
principles of life, elevation of mind, courage of conscience, 
and determination of virtuous will, such as no other system 
of belief ever bestowed. And even if, as she now shrewdly 
suspected, and intended in calmer moments to ascertain, the 
sublime revelations of Syra, concerning an unseen sphere of 
virtue, and its all-seeing Ruler, came from the same source, to 
what did it all amount more than to a grand moral and intel- 
lectual system, partly practical, partly speculative, as all codes 
of philosophic teaching were ? This was a very different thing 
from Christianity. She had as yet heard nothing of its real 
and essential doctrines, its fathomless, yet accessible depths of 
mystery; the awful, vast, and heaven-high structure of faith, 
which the simplest soul may contain ; as a child’s eye will take 
in the perfect reflection and counterpart of a mountain, though 
a giant cannot scale it. She had never heard of a God, One 
in Trinity ; of the coequal Son incarnate for man. She had 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


2 77 

never been told of the marvellous history of Redemption by 
God’s sufferings and death. She had not heard of Nazareth, 
or Bethlehem, or Calvary. How could she call herself a 
Christian, or be one, in ignorance of all this ? 

How many names had to become familiar and sweet to her 
which as yet were unknown, or barbarous — Mary, Joseph, 
Peter, Paul, and John? Not to mention the sweetest of all, 
His, whose name is balm to the wounded heart, or as honey 
dropping from the broken honeycomb. And how much had 
she yet to learn about the provision for salvation on earth, 
in the Church, in grace, in sacraments, in prayer, in love, in 
charity to others ! What unexplored regions lay beyond the 
small tract which she had explored ! 

No ; Fabiola returned home, exhausted almost by the pre- 
ceding day and night, and the sad scenes of the morning, and 
retired to her own apartment, no longer perhaps even a philo- 
sopher, yet not a Christian. She desired all her servants to 
keep away from the court which she occupied, that she might 
not be disturbed by the smallest noise ; and she forbade any 
one to have access to her. There she sat in loneliness and 
silence for several hours, too excited to obtain rest from slumber. 
She mourned long over Agnes, as a mother might over a child 
suddenly carried off. Yet, was there not a tinge of light upon 
the cloud that overshadowed her, more than when it hung over 
her father’s bier ? Did it not seem to her an insult to reason, 
an outrage to humanity, to think that she had perished ; that 
she had been permitted to walk forward in her bright robe, 
and with her smiling countenance, and with her joyous, simple 
heart, straight on — into nothing ; that she had been allured by 
conscience, and justice, and purity, and truth, on, on, till with 
arms outstretched to embrace them, she stepped over a preci- 
pice, beneath which yawned annihilation ? No. Agnes, she 
felt sure, was happy somehow, somewhere; or justice was a 
senseless word. 

“How strange,” she further thought, “that every one whom 
I have known endowed with superior excellence, men like 
Sebastian, women like Agnes, should turn out to have belonged 
to the scorned race of Christians ! One only remains, and 
to-morrow I will interrogate her.” 

When she turned from these, and looked round upon the 
heathen world, Fulvius, Tertullus, the Emperor, Calpurnius — 
nay, she shuddered as she surprised herself on the point of 
mentioning her own father’s name — it sickened her to see the 
contrast of baseness with nobleness, vice with virtue, stupidity 


278 FABIOLA; OR, 

with wisdom, and the sensual with the spiritual. Her mind 
was thus being shaped into a mould, which some form of 
practical excellence must be found to fill, or it must be broken ; 
her soul was craving as a parched soil, which heaven must send 
its waters to refresh, or it must become an eternal desert. 

Agnes, surely, well deserved the glory of gaining, by her 
death, her kinswoman’s conversion ; but was there not one, 
more humble, who had established a prior claim ? One who 
had given up freedom, and offered life, for this unselfish gain ? 

While Fabiola was alone and desolate, she was disturbed 
by the entrance of a stranger, introduced under the ominous 
title of “ A messenger from the emperor.” The porter had at 
first denied him admittance ; but upon being assured that he 
bore an important embassy from the sovereign, he felt obliged 
to inquire from the steward what to do ; when he was in- 
formed that no one with such a claim could be refused 
entrance. 

Fabiola was amazed, and her displeasure was somewhat miti- 
gated by the ridiculous appearance of the person deputed in 
such a solemn character. It was Corvinus, who with clownish 
grace approached her, and in a studied speech, evidently 
got up very floridly, and intrusted to a bad memory, laid at 
her feet an imperial rescript, and his own sincere affection, the 
Lady Agnes’s estates, and his clumsy hand. Fabiola could 
not at all comprehend the connection between the two com- 
bined presents, and never imagined that the one was a bribe 
for the other. So she desired him to return her humble 
thanks to the emperor for his gracious act ; adding, “ Say that 
I am too ill to-day to present myself, and do him homage.” 

“ But these estates, you are aware, were forfeited and con- 
fiscated,” he gasped out, in great confusion, “and my father 
has obtained them for you.” 

“ That was unnecessary,” said Fabiola, “ for they were settled 
on me long ago, and became mine the moment ” — she faltered, 
and after a strong effort at self-mastery, she continued — “ the 
moment they ceased to be another’s ; they did not fall under 
confiscation.” 

Corvinus was dumfoundered : at last he stumbled into some- 
thing, meant for an humble petition to be admitted as an 
aspirant after her hand, but understood by Fabiola to be a 
demand of recompense, for procuring or bringing so important 
a document. She assured him that every claim he might have 
on her should be fully and honourably considered at a more 
favourable moment ; but as she was exceedingly wearied and 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 279 

unwell, she must beg him to leave her at present. He did so 
quite elated, fancying that he had secured his prize. 

After he was gone, she hardly looked at the parchment, 
which he had left open on a small table by her couch, but 
sat musing on the sorrowful scenes she had witnessed ; till it 
wanted about an hour to sunset. Sometimes her reveries 
turned to one point, sometimes to another of the late events ; 
and at last she was dwelling on her being confronted with 
Fulvius that morning in the Forum. Her memory vividly 
replaced the entire scene before her, and her mind gradually 
worked itself into a state of painful excitement, which she at 
length checked by saying aloud to herself: “Thank heaven ! 
I shall never behold that villain’s face again.” 

The words were scarcely out of her mouth, when she shaded 
her eyes with her hand, as she raised herself up on her couch, 
and looked towards the door. Was it her overheated fancy 
which beguiled her, or did her wakeful eyes show her a reality ? 
Her ears decided the question, by these words which they 
heard. 

“ Pray, madam, who is the man whom you honour by that 
gracious speech ? ” 

“You, Fulvius,” she said, rising with dignity. “A further 
intruder still ; not only into the house, the villa, and the dun- 
geon, but into the most secret apartments of a lady’s residence ; 
and what is worse, into the house of sorrow of one whom you 
have bereaved. Begone at once, or I will have you ignomini- 
ously expelled hence.” 

“ Sit down and compose yourself, lady,” rejoined the intruder; 
“ this is my last visit to you ; but we have a reckoning to make 
together of some weight. As to crying out, or bringing in help, 
you need not trouble yourself ; your orders to your servants, to 
keep aloof, have been too well obeyed. There is no one 
within call.” 

It was true. Fulvius found the way prepared unwittingly 
for him by Corvinus ; for upon presenting himself at the door, 
the porter, who had seen him twice dine at the house, told him 
of the strict orders given, and assured him that he could not 
be admitted unless he came from the emperor, for such were 
his instructions. That, Fulvius said, was exactly his case; and 
the porter, wondering that so many imperial messengers should 
come in one day, let him pass. He begged that the door 
might be left unfastened, in case the porter should not be at 
his post when he retired ; for he was in a hurry, and should 
not like to disturb the house, in such a state of grief. He 


280 fabiola; or, 

added, that he required no guide, for he knew the way to 
Fabiola’s apartment. 

Fulvius seated himself opposite to the lady, and continued — 

“ You ought not to be offended, madam, with my unex- 
pectedly coming upon you, and overhearing your amiable 
soliloquies about myself ; it is a lesson I learnt from yourself 
in the Tullian prison. But I must begin my scores from an 
earlier date. When, for the first time, I was invited by your 
worthy father to his table, I met one, whose looks and words 
at once gained my affections, — I need not now mention her 
name, — and whose heart, with instinctive sympathy, returned 
them.” 

“ Insolent man ! ” Fabiola exclaimed, “ to allude to such a 
topic here ; it is false, that any such affection ever existed on 
either side.” 

“As to the Lady Agnes,” resumed Fulvius, “ I have the 
best authority, that of your lamented parent, who more than 
once encouraged me to persevere in my suit ; by assuring 
me that his cousin had confided to him her reciprocating 
love.” 

Fabiola was mortified ; for she now remembered that this 
was too true, from the hints which Fabius had given her, of 
his stupid misunderstanding. 

“ I know well that my dear father was under a delusion 
upon this subject ; but I, from whom that dear child concealed 
nothing ” 

“ Except her religion,” interrupted Fulvius, with bitter irony. 

“ Peace ! ” Fabiola went on ; “ that word sounds like a 
blasphemy on your lips — I knew that you were but an object 
of loathing and abhorrence to her.” 

“ Yes, after you had made me such. From that hour of our 
first meeting, you became my bitter and unrelenting foe, in 
conspiracy with that treacherous officer, who has received his 
reward, and whom you had destined for the place I courted. 
Repress your indignation, lady, for I will be heard out, — you 
undermined my character, you poisoned her feelings, and you 
turned my love into necessary enmity.” 

“Your love !” now broke in the indignant lady; “even if 
all that you have said were not basely false, what love could 
you have for her l How could you appreciate her artless 
simplicity, her genuine honesty, her rare understanding, her 
candid innocence, any more than the wolf can value the lamb’s 
gentleness, or the vulture the dove’s mildness? No, it was her 
wealth, her family connection, her nobility, that you grasped 



“ The judge angrily reproved the executioner for his hesitation, and bid him 
at once do his duty.” — Page 270. 




THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 28 I 

at, and nothing more ; I read it in the very flash of your eye, 
when first it fixed itself, as a basilisk’s, upon her.” 

“ It is false !” he rejoined; “had I obtained my request, 
had I been thus worthily mated, I should have been found 
equal to my position, domestic, contented, and affectionate ; 
as worthy of possessing her as ” 

“ As any one can be,” struck in Fabiola, “ who, in offering 
his hand, expresses himself equally ready, in three hours, to 
espouse or to murder the object of his affection. And she 
prefers the latter, and he keeps his word. Begone from my 
presence ; you taint the very atmosphere in which you move.” 

“ I will leave when I have accomplished my task, and you 
will have little reason to rejoice when I do. You have then 
purposely, and unprovoked, blighted and destroyed in me every 
honourable purpose of life, withered my only hope, cut me off 
from, rank, society, respectable ease, and domestic happiness. 

“ That was not enough. After acting in that character, 
with which you summed up my condemnation, of a spy, and 
listened to my conversation, you this morning threw off all 
sense of female propriety, and stood forward prominently in 
the Forum, to complete in public what you had begun in 
private, excite against me the supreme tribunal, and through 
it the emperor, and arouse an unjust popular outcry and ven- 
geance ; such as, but for a feeling stronger than fear, which 
brings me hither, would make me now skulk, like a hunted 
wolf, till I could steal out of the nearest gate.” 

“And, Fulvius, I tell you,” interposed Fabiola, “that the 
moment you cross its threshold, the average of virtue will 
be raised in this wicked city. Again I bid you depart from 
my house, at least ; or at any rate I will withdraw from this 
offensive intrusion.” 

“ We part not yet, lady,” said Fulvius, whose countenance 
had been growing every moment more flushed, as his lips had 
been becoming more deadly pale. He rudely grasped her 
arm, and pushed her back to her seat; “and beware,” he 
added, “ how you attempt again either to escape or to bring 
aid ; your first cry will be your last, cost me what it may. 

“ You have made me, then, an outcast, not only from society 
but from Rome, an exile, a houseless wanderer on a friendless 
earth ; was not that enough to satisfy your vengeance? No; 
you must needs rob me of my gold, of my rightfully, though 
painfully earned wealth ; peace, reputation, my means of sub- 
sistence, all you have stolen from me, a youthful stranger.” 

“ Wicked and insolent man ! ” exclaimed now the indignant 


282 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


Roman lady, reckless of consequences, “ you shall answer 
heavily for your temerity. Dare you, in my own house, call 
me a thief? ” 

u I dare ; and I tell you this is your day of reckoning, and not 
mine. I have earned, even if by crime it is nothing to you, 
my full share of your cousin’s confiscated property. I have 
earned it hardly, by pangs and rendings of the heart and soul, 
by sleepless nights of struggles with fiends that have conquered ; 
ay, and with one at home that is sterner than they ; by days 
and days of restless search for evidence, amidst the desola- 
tion of a proud, but degraded spirit. Have I not a right to 
enjoy it ? 

“ Ay, call it what you will, call it my blood-money ; the more 
infamous it is, the more base in you to step in and snatch it 
from me. It is like a rich man tearing the carrion from the 
hound’s jaws, after he had swollen his feet and rent his skin in 
hunting it down.” 

“ I will not seek for further epithets by which to call you ; 
your mind is deluded by some vain dream,” said Fabiola, with an 
earnestness not untinged with alarm. She felt she was in the 
presence of a madman, one in whom violent passion, carried 
off by an unchecked, deeply moved fancy, was lashing itself 
up to that intensity of wicked excitement which constitutes 
a moral frenzy — when the very murderer thinks himself a 
virtuous avenger. “ Fulvius,” she continued, with studied 
calmness, and looking fully into his eyes, “ I now entreat you 
to go. If you want money, you shall have it ; but go, in 
heaven’s name go, before you destroy your reason by your 
anger.” 

“ What vain fancy do you mean ? ” asked Fulvius. 

“ Why, that I should have ever dreamt about Agnes’s wealth 
or property on such a day, or should have taken any advantage 
of her cruel death.” 

“ And yet it is so ; I have it from the emperor’s mouth that 
he has made it over to you. Will you pretend to make me 
believe, that this most generous and liberal prince ever parted 
with a penny unsolicited, ay, or unbribed ? ” 

“ Of this I know nothing. But I know that I would rather 
have died of want than petitioned for a farthing of such pro- 
perty ! ” 

“ Then would you make me rather believe, that in this city 
there is any one so disinterested as, undesired, to have petitioned 
for you? No, no, Lady Fabiola, all this is too incredible. 
But what is that? And he pounced with eagerness on the 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 283 

imperial rescript, which had remained unlooked at, since 
Corvinus had left it. The sensation to him was like that of 
HLneas when he saw Pallas’s belt upon the body of Turnus. 
The fury, which seemed to have been subdued by his subtlety, 
as he had been reasoning to prove Fabiola guilty, flashed up 
anew at the sight of this fatal document. He eyed it for a 
minute, then broke out, gnashing his teeth with rage — 

“Now, madam, I convict you of baseness, rapacity, and 
unnatural cruelty, far beyond anything you have dared to 
charge on me ! Look at this rescript, beautifully engrossed, 
with its golden letters and emblazoned margins ; and presume 
to say that it was prepared in the one hour that elapsed 
between your cousin’s death, and the emperor’s telling me that 
he had signed it? Nor do you pretend to know the generous 
friend who procured you the gift. Bah ! while Agnes was in 
prison at latest ; while you were whining and moaning over 
her ; while you were reproaching me for cruelty and treachery 
towards her — me, a stranger and alien to her ! you, the gentle 
lady, the virtuous philosopher, the loving, fondling kinswoman, 
you, my stern reprover, were coolly plotting to take advantage 
of my crime, for securing her property, and seeking out the 
elegant scribe, who should gild your covetousness with his 
pencil, and paint over your treason to your own flesh and 
blood with his blushing minium .” 1 

“ Cease, madman, cease ! ” exclaimed Fabiola, endeavouring 
in vain to master his glaring eye. But he went on in still wilder 
tone — 

“ And then, forsooth, when you have thus basely robbed me, 
you offer me money. You have outplotted me, and you pity 
me ! You have made me a beggar, and then you offer me 
alms — alms out of my own wages, the wages which even hell 
allows its fated victims while on earth ! ” 

Fabiola rose again, but he seized her with a maniac’s gripe, 
and this time did not let her go. He went on — 

“ Now listen to the last words that I will speak, or they may 
be the last that you will hear. Give back to me that unjustly 
obtained property ; it is not fair that I should have the guilt, 
and you its reward. Transfer it by your sign manual to 
me as a free and loving gift, and I will depart. If not, you 
have signed your own doom.” A stern and menacing glance 
accompanied these words. 

Fabiola’s haughty self rose again erect within her ; her 


1 Red paint. 


fabiola; or, 


284 

Roman heart, unsubdued, stood firm. Danger only made her 
fearless. She gathered her robe with matronly dignity around 
her, and replied — 

“ Fulvius, listen to my words, though they should be the 
last that I may speak ; as certainly they shall be the last that 
you shall hear from me. 

“ Surrender this property to you ? I would give it willingly 
to the first leper that I might meet in the street, but to you 
never. Never shall you touch thing that belonged to that holy 
maiden, be it a gem or be it a straw ! That touch would be 
pollution. Take gold of mine, if it please you ; but anything 
that ever belonged to her, from me no treasures can ransom. 
And one legacy I prize more than all her inheritance. You 
have now offered me two alternatives, as last night you did her, 
to yield to your demands, or die. Agnes taught me which to 
choose. Once again, I say, depart.” 

“And leave you to possess what is mine? leave you to 
triumph over me, as one whom you have outwitted — you 
honoured, and I disgraced — you rich, and I penniless — you 
happy, and I wretched? No, never! I cannot save myself 
from what you have made me ; but I can prevent your being 
what you have no right to be. For this I have come here ; 
this is my day of Nemesis . 1 Now die!” While he was 
speaking these reproaches, he was slowly pushing her back- 
wards with his left hand towards the couch from which she 
had risen ; while his right was tremblingly feeling for some- 
thing in the folds of his bosom. 

As he finished his last word, he thrust her violently down 
upon the couch, and seized her by the hair. She made no 
resistance, she uttered no cry ; partly a fainting and sickening 
sensation came over her ; partly a noble feeling of self-respect 
checked any unseemly exhibition of fear before a scornful 
enemy. Just as she closed her eyes, she saw something like 
lightning above her; she could not tell whether it was his 
glaring eye or flashing steel. 

In another moment she felt oppressed and suffocated, as if a 
great weight had fallen upon her ; and a hot stream was flowing 
over her bosom. 

A sweet voice full of earnestness sounded in her ears — 

“ Cease, Orontius ; I am thy sister, Miriam ! ” 

Fulvius, in accents choked by passion, replied — 

“ It is false ; give me up my prey ! ” 


1 Revenge. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 285 

A few words more were faintly spoken in a tongue unknown 
to Fabiola ; when she felt her hair released, heard the dagger 
dashed to the ground, and Fulvius cry out bitterly, as he rushed 
out of the room — 

“ O Christ ! this is Thy Nemesis ! ” 

Fabiola’s strength was returning; but she felt the weight 
upon her increase. She struggled, and released herself. 
Another body was lying in her place, apparently dead, and 
covered with blood. 

It was the faithful Syra, who had thrown herself between 
her mistress’s life and her brother’s dagger. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


AIONTCIOY 
IATPOY 1 
TTPGC BYT6POY 


The great thoughts which this occurrence would naturally 
have suggested to the noble heart of Fabiola were suppressed, 
for a time, by the exigencies of the moment. Her first care 
was to staunch the flowing blood with whatever was nearest at 
hand. While she was engaged in this work, there was a general 
rush of servants towards her apartment. The stupid porter 
had begun to be uneasy at Fulvius’s long stay (the reader has 
now heard his real name), when he saw him dash out of the 
door like a maniac, and thought he perceived stains of blood 
upon his garment. He immediately gave the alarm to the 
entire household. 

Fabiola by a gesture stopped the crowd at the door of her 
room, and desired only Euplirosyne and her Greek maid to 
enter. The latter, since the influence of the black slave had 
been removed, had attached herself most affectionately to 
Syra, as we must still call her, and had, with great docility, 
listened to her moral instructions. A slave was instantly 
despatched for the physician who had always been sent for by 
Syra in illness, Dionysius, who, as we have already observed, 
lived in the house of Agnes. 

In the meantime, Fabiola had been overjoyed at finding the 

1 “[The tomb] of Dionysius, physician [and] priest,” lately found at the 
entrance to the crypt of St. Cornelius, in the cemetery of Callistus. 


286 


fabiola; or, 

blood cease to flow so rapidly, and still more at seeing her 
servant open her eyes upon her, though only for a moment. 
She would not have exchanged for any wealth the sweet smile 
which accompanied that look. 

In a few minutes the kind physician arrived. He carefully 
examined the wound, and pronounced favourably on it for the 
present. The blow, as aimed, would have gone straight to 
Fabiola’s heart. But her loving servant, in spite of prohibition, 
had been hovering near her mistress during the whole day ; 
never intruding, but anxious for any opportunity which might 
offer of seconding those good impressions of grace which the 
morning’s scenes could not fail to have produced. While in 
a neighbouring room, she heard violent tones whch were too 
familiar to her ears ; and hastened noiselessly round, and within 
the curtain which covered the door of Fabiola’s own apartment, 
she stood concealed in the dusk, on the very spot where Agnes 
had, a few months before, consoled her. 

She had not been there long when the last struggle com- 
menced. While the man was pushing her mistress backwards, 
she followed him close behind ; and as he was lifting his arm 
passed him, and threw her body over that of his victim. The 
blow descended, but misdirected, through the shock she gave 
his arm ; and it fell upon her neck, where it inflicted a deep 
wound, checked, however, by encountering the collar-bone. 
We need not say what it cost her to make this sacrifice. Not 
the dread of pain nor the fear of death could for a moment 
have deterred her; it was the horror of imprinting on her 
brother’s brow the mark of Cain, the making him doubly a 
fratricide, which deeply anguished her. But she had offered 
her life for her mistress. To have fought with the assassin, 
whose strength and agility she knew, would have been useless ; 
to try to alarm the house before one fatal blow was struck was 
hopeless ; and nothing remained but to accomplish her immo- 
lation, by substituting herself for the intended victim. Still 
she wished to spare her brother the consummation of his crime, 
and in doing so manifested to Fabiola their relationship and 
their real names. 

In his blind fury he refused her credit ; but the words, in 
their native tongue, which said, “ Remember my scarf which 
you picked up here,” brought back to his memory so terrible 
a domestic tale, that had the earth opened a cavern in that 
moment before his feet, he would have leapt into it, to bury his 
remorse and shame. 

Strange, too, it proved, that he should not have ever allowed 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 287 

Eurotas to get possession of that family relic, but should, ever 
since he regained it, have kept it apart as a sacred thing ; and, 
when all else was being packed up, should have folded it up 
and put it in his breast. And now, in the act of drawing out 
his eastern dagger, he had plucked this out too, and both were 
found upon the floor. 

Dionysius, immediately after dressing the wound, and ad- 
ministering proper restoratives, which brought back conscious- 
ness, desired the patient to be left perfectly quiet, to see as few 
persons as possible, so as to prevent excitement, and to go on 
with the treatment which he prescribed until midnight. “ I 
will call,” he added, “very early in the morning, when I must 
see my patient alone.” He whispered a few words in her ear, 
which seemed to do her more good than all his medicines ; 
for her countenance brightened into an angelic smile. 

Fabiola had her placed on her own bed, and, allotting to 
her attendants the outward room, reserved to herself exclusively 
the privilege, as she deemed it, of nursing the servant, to whom 
a few months before she could hardly feel grateful for having 
tended her in fever. She had informed the others how the 
wound had been inflicted, concealing the relationship between 
her assailant and her deliverer. 

Although herself exhausted and feverish, she would not leave 
the bedside of the patient ; and when midnight was past, and 
no more remedies had to be administered, she sank to rest 
upon a low couch close to the bed. And now what were her 
thoughts, when, in the dim light of a sick-room, she opened 
her mind and heart to them ? They were simple and earnest. 
She saw at once the reality and truth of all that her servant 
had ever spoken to her. When she last conversed with her, 
the principles which she heard with delight had appeared to 
her wholly beyond practice, beautiful theories, which could not 
be brought to action. When Miriam had described a sphere 
of virtue, wherein no approbation or reward of man was to be 
expected, but only the approving eye of God, she had admired 
the idea, which powerfully seized her generous mind ; but she 
had rebelled against its becoming the constraining rule of 
hourly conduct. Yet, if the stroke under which she cast her- 
self had proved fatal, as it might easily have done, where would 
have been her reward? What, then, could have been her 
motive but that very theory, as it seemed, of responsibility to 
an unseen power? 

And when Miriam had discoursed of heroism in virtue as 
being its ordinary standard, how chimerical the principle had 


288 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

seemed ! Yet here, without preparation, without forethought, 
without excitement, without glory — nay, with marked desire of 
concealment, this slave had performed a deed of self-sacrifice 
heroic in every way. From what could that result but from 
habitual heroism of virtue, ready at any hour to do what would 
ennoble for ever a soldier’s name? She was no dreamer, 
then, no theorist, but a serious, real practiser of all that she 
taught. Could this be a philosophy? Oh no, it must be a 
religion ! the religion of Agnes and of Sebastian, to whom she 
considered Miriam every way equal. How she longed to con- 
verse with her again ! 

Early in the morning, according to his promise, the physician 
returned, and found his patient much improved. He desired 
to be left alone with her ; when, having spread a linen cloth 
upon the table, and placed lighted tapers upon it, he drew 
from his bosom an embroidered scarf, and uncovered a golden 
box, the sacred contents of which she well knew. Approach- 
ing her, he said — 

“My dear child, as I promised you, I have now brought 
you not merely the truest remedy of every ailment, bodily and 
spiritual, but the very Physician Himself, who by His word 
alone restoreth all things , 1 whose touch opens the eyes of the 
blind and the ears of the deaf, whose will cleanses lepers, the 
hem of whose garment sends forth virtue to cure all. Are you 
ready to receive Him?” 

“ With all my heart,” she replied, clasping her hands ; “ I 
long to possess Him whom alone I have loved, in whom I have 
believed, to whom my heart belongs.” 

“ Does no anger or indignation exist in your soul against 
him who has injured you ? does any pride or vanity arise in 
your mind at the thought of what you have done ? or are you 
conscious of any other fault requiring humble confession and 
absolution before receiving the sacred gift into your breast ? ” 

“ Full of imperfection and sin I know myself to be, vener- 
able father ; but I am not conscious of any knowing offence. 
I have had no need to forgive him to whom you allude ; I love 
him too much for that, and would willingly give my life to save 
him. And of what have I to be proud, a poor servant, who 
have only obeyed my Lord’s commands ? ” 

“ Invite, then, my child, this Lord into your house, that 
coming He may heal you, and fill you with His grace.” 

Approaching the table, he took from it a particle of the 
Blessed Eucharist, in the form of unleavened bread, which, 

1 “ Qui verbo suo instaurat universa.” — The Breviary. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 289 

being dry, he moistened in water, and placed within her lips . 1 
She closed them upon it, and remained for some time absorbed 
in contemplation. 

And thus did the holy Dionysius discharge his twofold office 
of physician and priest, attributed to him on his tomb. 


CHAPTER XXXII 

THE SACRIFICE ACCEPTED 

Through the whole of that day the patient seemed occupied 
with deep, but most pleasing thoughts. Fabiola, who never left 
her, except for moments to give necessary directions, watched 
her countenance with a mixture of awe and delight. It appeared 
as if her servant’s mind were removed from surrounding objects, 
and conversing in a totally different sphere. Now a smile 
passed like a sunbeam across her features, now a tear trembled 
in her eye, or flowed down her cheeks ; sometimes her pupils 
were raised and kept fixed on heaven for a considerable time, 
while a blissful look of perfect and calm enjoyment sat unvary- 
ing upon her ; and then she would turn round with an expression 
of infinite tenderness towards her mistress, and hold out her 
hand to be clasped in hers. And Fabiola could sit thus for 
hours in silence, which was as yet prescribed ; feeling it an 
honour, and thinking it did her good, to be in contact with 
such a rare type of virtue. 

At length, in the course of the day, after giving her patient 
some nourishment, she said to her, smiling — “ I think you are 
much better, Miriam, already. Your physician must have given 
you some wonderful medicine.” 

“ Indeed he has, my dearest mistress.” 

Fabiola was evidently pained; and leaning over her, said 
softly — “ Oh, do not, I entreat you, call me by such a title. 
If it has to be used, it should be by me towards you. But, 
in fact, it is no longer true; for what I long intended has 
now been done; and the instrument of your liberation has 
been ordered to be made out, not as a freedwoman, but as an 
ingenua ; 2 for such I know you are.’ 

1 Eusebius, in his account of Serapion, teaches us that this was the 
manner of administering Holy Communion to the sick, without the cup, or 
under only one kind. 

2 Persons freed from slavery retained the title of freedman or freed- 
woman ( libertus , liberta) of the person to whom they had belonged, as “ of 

T 


290 


FABIOLA ; OR, 

Miriam looked her thanks, for fear of further hurting Fabiola’s 
feelings ; and they continued to be happy together in silence. 

Towards evening Dionysius returned, and found so great an 
improvement, that, ordering more nourishing food, he permitted 
a little quiet conversation. 

“ I must now,” said Fabiola, so soon as they were alone, 
“ fulfil the first duty, which my heart has been burning to 
discharge, that of thanking you, — I wish I knew a stronger 
word, — not for the life which you have saved me, but for the 
magnanimous sacrifice which you made for it — and, let me 
add, the unequalled example of heroic virtue, which alone 
inspired it.” 

“ After all, what have I done, but simple duty ? You had 
a right to my life, for a much less cause than to save yours,” 
answered Miriam. 

“ No dou^” responded Fabiola, “ it appears so to you, who 
have been trained to the doctrine which overpowered me, that 
the most heroic acts ought to be considered by men as per- 
formances of ordinary duties.” 

“ And thereby,” rejoined Miriam, “ they cease to be what 
you have called them.” 

“ No, no,” exclaimed Fabiola, with enthusiasm ; “ do not 
try to make me mean and vile to my own heart, by teaching 
me to undervalue what I cannot but prize as an unrivalled act 
of virtue. I have been reflecting on it, night and day, since I 
witnessed it ; and my heart has been yearning to speak to you 
of it, and even yet I dare not, or I should oppress your weak- 
ness with my overcharged feelings. It was noble, it was grand, 
it was beyond all reach of praise ; though I know you do not 
want it. I cannot see any way in which the sublimeness of 
the act could have been enhanced, or human virtue rise one 
step higher.” 

Miriam, who was now raised to a reclining position, took 
Fabiola’s hand between both hers ; and turning round towards 
her, in a soft and mild, but most earnest tone, thus addressed 
her — 

“ Good and gentle lady, for one moment listen to me. Not 
to depreciate what you are good enough to value, since it 
pains you to hear it, but to teach you how far we still are from 
what might have been done, let me trace for you a parallel 
scene, but where all shall be reversed. Let it be a slave — 

Augustus.” If they had belonged originally to a free class, they were libe- 
rated as ingenuus or ingenua (well-born), and restored by emancipation to 
that class. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


291 


pardon me, dear Fabiola, for another pang — I see it in your 
face, but it shall be the last — yes, a slave brutish, ungrateful, 
rebellious to the most benign and generous of masters. And 
let the stroke, not of an assassin, but of the minister of justice, 
impend over his head. What would you call the act, how 
would you characterise the virtue, of that master, if out of pure 
love, and that he might reclaim that wretched man, he should 
rush beneath the axe’s blow, ay, and its preceding ignominious 
stripes, and leave written in his will, that he made that slave 
heir to his titles and his wealth, and desired him to be con- 
sidered as his brother ? ” 

“ O Miriam, Miriam, you have drawn a picture too sublime 
to be believed of man. You have not eclipsed your own 
deed, for I spoke of huvian virtue. To act as you have now 
described, would require, if possible, that of a God ! ” 

Miriam pressed the folded hand to her bosom, fixed on 
Fabiola’s wondering eyes a look of heavenly inspiration, as she 
sweetly and solemnly replied — “And Jesus Christ, who did 

ALL THIS FOR MAN, WAS TRULY GOD.” 

Fabiola covered her face with both her hands, and for a 
long time was silent. Miriam prayed earnestly in her own 
tranquil heart. 

“Miriam, I thank you from my soul,” at length Fabiola 
said ; “ you have fulfilled your promise of guiding me. For 
some time I have only been fearing that you might not be a 
Christian ; but it could not be. 

“ Now tell me, are those awful, but sweet words, which 
you just now uttered, which have sunk into my heart as 
deeply, as silently, and as irrevocably as a piece of gold dropt 
upon the surface of the still ocean goes down into its depths, 
— are those words a mere part of the Christian system, or are 
they its essential principle ? ” 

“From a simple allegory, dear lady, your powerful mind 
has in one bound reached and grasped the master-key of our 
whole teaching : the alembic of your refined understanding 
has extracted, and condensed into one thought, the most vital 
and prominent doctrines of Christianity. You have distilled 
them into their very essence. 

“That man, God’s creature and bondsman, rebelled against 
his Lord; that justice irresistible had doomed, and pursued 
him ; that this very Lord ‘ took the form of a servant, and in 
habit was found like a man ; ' 1 that in this form He suffered 
stripes, buffets, mockery, and shameful death, became the 
1 Phil. ii. 7. 


292 fabiola; or, 

‘ Crucified One/ as men here call Him, and thereby rescued 
man from his fate, and gave him part in His own riches and 
kingdom : all this is. comprised in the words that I have 
spoken. 

“ And you had reached the right conclusion. Only God 
could have performed so godlike an action, or have offered so 
sublime an expiation.” 

Fabiola was again wrapped up in silent thought, till she 
timidly asked — 

“And was it to this that you referred in Campania, when 
you spoke of God alone being a victim worthy of God ? ” 

“Yes; but I further alluded to the continuation of that 
sacrifice, even in our own days, by a marvellous dispensation 
of an all-powerful love. However, on this I must not yet 
speak.” 

Fabiola resumed — “ I every moment see, how all that you 
have ever spoken to me coheres and fits together, like the parts 
of one plant; all springing one from another. I thought it 
bore only the lovely flowers of an elegant theory ; you have 
shown me in your conduct how these can ripen into sweet and 
solid fruit. In the doctrine which you have just explained, I 
seem to myself to find the noble stem from which all the others 
branch forth — even to that very fruit. For who would refuse 
to do for another, what is much less than God has done for 
him ? But, Miriam, there is a deep and unseen root whence 
springs all this, possibly dark beyond contemplation, deep 
beyond reach, complex beyond man’s power to unravel ; yet 
perhaps simple to a confiding mind. If, in my present igno- 
rance, I can venture to speak, it should be vast enough to 
occupy all nature, rich enough to fill creation with all that is 
good and perfect in it, strong enough to bear the growth of 
your noble tree, till its summit reach above the stars, and its 
branches to the ends of earth. 

“ I mean, your idea of that God, whom you made me fear, 
when you spoke to me as a philosopher of Him, and taught 
me to know as the ever-present Watchman and Judge; but 
whom I am sure you will make me love when, as a Christian, 
you exhibit Him to me, as the root and origin of such bound- 
less tenderness and mercy. 

“Without some deep mystery in His nature, as yet unknown 
to me, I cannot fully apprehend that wonderful doctrine of 
man’s purchase.” 

“ Fabiola,” responded Miriam, “ more learned teachers than 
I should undertake the instruction of one so gifted and so 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


293 


acute. But will you believe me, if I attempt to give you some 
explanation ? ” 

“ Miriam,” replied Fabiola, with strong emphasis, “ one 

WHO IS READY TO DIE FOR ANOTHER, WILL CERTAINLY NOT 
DECEIVE HIM.” 

“ And now,” rejoined the patient, smiling, “ you have again 
seized a great principle — that of faith. I will, therefore, be 
only the simple narrator of what Jesus Christ, who truly died 
for us, has taught us. You will believe my word only as 
that of a faithful witness ; you will accept His, as that of an 
unerring God.” 

Fabiola bowed her head, and listened with reverential mind 
to her, in whom she had long honoured a teacher of marvel- 
lous wisdom, which she drew from some unknown school ; but 
whom now she almost worshipped as an angel, who could open 
to her the flood-gates of the eternal ocean, whose waters are 
the unfathomable Wisdom, overflowing on earth. 

Miriam expounded, in the simple terms of Catholic teaching, 
the sublime doctrine of the Trinity; then after relating the fall 
of man, unfolded the mystery of the Incarnation, giving, in 
the very words of St. John, the history of the Eternal Word, 
till He was made flesh, and dwelt among men. Often was she 
interrupted by the expressions of admiration or assent which 
her pupil uttered ; never by cavil or doubt. Philosophy had 
given place to religion, captiousness to docility, incredulity to 
faith. 

But now a sadness seemed to have come over Fabiola’s 
heart ; Miriam read it in her looks, and asked her its cause. 

“ I hardly dare tell you,” she replied. “ But all that you 
have related to me is so beautiful, so divine, that it seems to 
me necessarily to end here. 

“ The Word (what a noble name !), that is, the expression 
of God’s love, the externation of His wisdom, the evidence of 
His power, the very breath of His life-giving life, which is 
Himself, becometh flesh. Who shall furnish it to Him ? Shall 
He take up the cast-off slough of a tainted humanity, or shall 
a new manhood be created expressly for Him ? Shall He take 
His place in a double genealogy, receiving thus into Himself a 
twofold tide of corruption ; and shall there be any one on earth 
daring and high enough to call himself His father ? ” 

“No,” softly whispered Miriam; “but there shall be one 
holy enough, and humble enough, to be worthy to call herself 
His mother ! 

“Almost 800 years before the Son of God came into the 


294 fabiola; or, 

world, a prophet spoke, and recorded his words, and deposited 
the record of them in the hands of the Jews, Christ’s inveterate 
enemies ; and his words were these : * Behold, a Virgin shall con- 
ceive and bear a Son, and His name shall be called Emanuel,’ 1 
which in the Hebrew language signifies ‘ God with us,’ that is, 
with men. 

“This prophecy was of course fulfilled in the conception 
and birth of God’s Son on earth.” 

“ And who was she ? ” asked Fabiola, with great reverence. 

“ One whose very name is blessed by every one that truly 
loves her Son. Mary is the name by which you will know her ; 
Miriam, its original in her own tongue, is the one by which I 
honour her. Well, you may suppose, was she prepared for 
such high destiny by holiness and virtue ; not as cleansed, but 
as ever clean ; not as purified, but as always pure ; not freed, 
but exempted, from sin. The tide of which you spoke, found 
before her the dam of an eternal decree, which could not brook 
that the holiness of God should mingle with what it could only 
redeem, by keeping extraneous to itself. Bright as the blood 
of Adam, when the breath of God sent it sparkling through 
his veins, pure as the flesh of Eve, while standing yet in the 
mould of the Almighty hands, as they drew it from the side 
of the slumbering man, were the blood and the flesh, which the 
Spirit of God formed into the glorious humanity, that Mary 
gave to Jesus. 

“ And after this glorious privilege granted to our sex, are you 
surprised that many, like your sweet Agnes, should have chosen 
this peerless Virgin as the pattern of their lives ; should find 
in her, whom God so elected, the model of every virtue ; and 
should, in preference to allowing themselves to be yoked, even 
by the tenderest of ties, to the chariot-wheels of this world, 
seek to fly upwards on wings of undivided love like hers ? ” 

After a pause and some refection, Miriam proceeded briefly 
to detail the history of our Saviour’s birth, His laborious youth, 
His active but suffering public life, and then His ignominious 
Passion. Often was the narrative interrupted by the tears and 
sobs of the willing listener and ready learner. At last the time 
for rest had come, when Fabiola humbly asked — 

“ Are you too fatigued to answer one question more ? ” 

“No,” was the cheerful reply. 

“What hope,” said Fabiola, “can there be for one who 
cannot say she was ignorant, for she pretended to know every- 
thing ; nor that she neglected to learn, for she affected eager- 
1 Isaias vii. 14. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


295 


ness after every sort of knowledge ; but can only confess that 
she scorned the true wisdom, and blasphemed its Giver ; — for 
one who has scoffed at the very torments which proved the 
love, and sneered at the death which was the ransoming, of 
Him whom she has mocked at, as the ‘ Crucified ? ’ ” 

A flood of tears stopped her speech. 

Miriam waited till their relieving flow had subsided into that 
gentler dew which softens the heart ; then in soothing tones 
addressed her as follows : — 

“In the days of our Lord there lived a woman who bore 
the same name as His spotless Mother; but she had sinned 
publicly, degradingly, as you, Fabiola, would abhor to sin. She 
became acquainted, we know not how, with her Redeemer; 
in the secrecy of her own heart, she contemplated earnestly, 
till she came to love intensely, His gracious and condescending 
familiarity with sinners, and His singular indulgence and for- 
givingness to the fallen. She loved and loved still more ; and, 
forgetting herself, she only thought how she might manifest 
her love, so that it might bring honour, however slight, to 
Him, and shame, however great, on herself. 

“ She went into the house of a rich man, where the usual 
courtesies of hospitality had been withheld from its Divine 
guest, into the house of a haughty man who spurned, in the 
presumption of his heart, the public sinner ; she supplied the 
attentions which had been neglected to Him whom she loved ; 
and she was scorned, as she expected, for her obtrusive sorrow.” 

“ How did she do this, Miriam ? ” 

“ She knelt at His feet as He sat at table ; she poured out 
upon them a flood of tears ; she wiped them with her luxurious 
hair, she kissed them fervently, and she anointed them with 
rich perfume.” 

“ And what was the result ? ” 

“ She was defended by Jesus against the carping gibes of 
His host ; she was told that she was forgiven on account of 
her love, and was dismissed with kindest comfort.” 

“ And what became of her ? ” 

“When on Calvary He was crucified, two women were 
privileged to stand close to Him ; Mary the sinless, and Mary 
the penitent : to show how unsullied and repentant love may 
walk hand in hand, beside Him who said, that He had ‘ come 
to call not the just, but sinners to repentance.’ ” 

No more was said that night Miriam, fatigued with her 
exertion, sank into a placid slumber. Fabiola sat by her side, 
filled to her heart’s brim with this tale of love. She pondered 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


2Q6 

over it again and again ; and she still saw more and more how 
every part of this wonderful system was consistent. For if 
Miriam had been ready to die for her, in imitation of her 
Saviour’s love, so had she been as ready to forgive her, when 
she had thoughtlessly injured her. Every Christian, she now 
felt, ought to be a copy, a representative of his Master; but 
the one that slumbered so tranquilly beside her was surely true 
to her model, and might well represent Him to her. 

When, after some time, Miriam awoke, she found her mis- 
tress (for her patent of freedom was not yet completed) lying 
at her feet, over which she had sobbed herself to sleep. She 
understood at once the full meaning and merit of this self- 
humiliation ; she did not stir, but thanked God with a full 
heart that her sacrifice had been accepted. 

Fabiola, on awaking, crept back to her own couch, as she 
thought, unobserved A secret, sharp pang it had cost her to 
perform this act of self-abasement ; but she had thoroughly 
humbled the pride of her heart. She felt for the first time that 
her heart was Christian. 


CHAPTER XXXIII 

MIRIAM’S HISTORY 

The next morning, when Dionysius came, he found both patient 
and nurse so radiant and so happy, that he congratulated them 
both on having had a good night’s rest. Both laughed at the 
idea; but concurred in saying that it had been the happiest 
night of their lives. Dionysius was surprised, till Miriam, 
taking the hand of Fabiola, said — 

“Venerable priest of God, I confide to your fatherly care 
this catechumen, who desires to be fully instructed in the mys- 
teries of our holy faith, and to be regenerated by the waters 
of eternal salvation.” 

“What!” asked Fabiola, amazed, “are you more than a 
physician ? ” 

“ I am, my child,” the old man replied ; “unworthily I hold 
likewise the higher office of a priest in God’s Church.” 

Fabiola unhesitatingly knelt before him, and kissed his 
hand. The priest placed his right hand upon her head and 
said to her — 

“Be of good courage, daughter; you are not the first of 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 297 

your house whom God has brought into His holy Church. It 
is now many years since I was called in here, under the guise of 
a physician, by a former servant, now no more ; but in reality it 
was to baptize, a few hours before her death, the wife of Fabius.” 

“ My mother ! ” exclaimed Fabiola. “ She died immediately 
after giving me birth. And did she die a Christian ? ” 

“Yes; and I doubt not that her spirit has been hovering 
about you through life by the side of the angel who guards 
you, guiding you unseen to this blessed hour. And, before 
the throne of God, she has been unceasing in her supplications 
on your behalf.” 

Joy tenfold filled the breasts of the two friends ; and after 
arrangements had been made with Dionysius for the neces- 
sary instructions and preparations for Fabiola’s admission to 
baptism, she went up to the side of Miriam, and taking her 
hand, said to her in a low, soft voice — 

“ Miriam, may I from henceforth call you sister ? ” A pres- 
sure of the hand was the only reply which she could give. 

With their mistress, the old nurse, Euphrosyne, and the 
Greek slave, placed themselves, as we now say, under instruc- 
tion, to receive baptism on Easter-eve. Nor must we forget 
one who was already enrolled in the list of catechumens, and 
whom Fabiola had taken home with her and kept, Emerentiana, 
the foster-sister of Agnes. It was her delight to make herself 
useful, by being the ready messenger between the sick-room 
and the rest of the house. 

During her illness, as her strength improved, Miriam imparted 
many particulars of her previous life to Fabiola ; and as they 
will throw some light on our preceding narrative, we will give 
her history in a continuous form. 

Some years before our story commenced, there lived in 
Antioch a man who, though not of ancient family, was rich, and 
moved in the highest circles of that most luxurious city. To 
keep his position, he was obliged to indulge in great expense ; 
and from want of strict economy, he had gradually become 
oppressed with debt. He was married to a lady of great 
virtue, who became a Christian, at first secretly, and afterwards 
continued so, with her husband’s reluctant consent. In the 
meantime, their two children, a son and daughter, had received 
their domestic education under her care. The former, Orontius, 
so called from the favourite stream which watered the city, was 
fifteen when his father first discovered his wife’s religion. He 
had learnt much from his mother of the doctrines of Chris- 
tianity, and had been with her an attendant on Christian 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


298 

worship ; and hence he possessed a dangerous knowledge, of 
which he afterwards made so fatal a use. 

But he had not the least inclination to embrace the doctrines 
or adopt the practices of Christianity ; nor would he hear of 
preparing for baptism. He was wilful and artful, with no love 
for any restraint upon his passions, or for any strict morality. 
He looked forward to distinction in the world, and to his full 
share in all its enjoyments. He had been, and continued to 
be, highly educated; and besides the Greek language, then 
generally spoken at Antioch, he was acquainted with Latin, 
which he spoke readily and gracefully, as we have seen, though 
with a slight foreign accent. In the family, the vernacular 
idiom was used with servants, and often in familiar conversa- 
tion. Orontius was not sorry when his father removed him 
from his mother’s control, and insisted that he should continue 
to follow the dominant and favoured religion of the state. 

As to the daughter, who was three years younger, he did 
not so much care. He deemed it foolish and unmanly to 
take much trouble about religion ; to change it especially, or 
abandon that of the empire, was, he thought, a sign of weak- 
ness. But women being more imaginative, and more under 
the sway of the feelings, might be indulged in any fancies of 
this sort. Accordingly he permitted his daughter Miriam, 
whose name was Syrian, as the mother belonged to a rich 
family from Edessa, to continue in the free exercise of her 
new faith. She became, in addition to her high mental cul- 
tivation, a model of virtue, simple and unpretending. It was 
a period, we may observe, in which the city of Antioch was 
renowned for the learning of its philosophers, some of whom 
were eminent as Christians. 

A few years later, when the son had reached manhood, 
and had abundantly unfolded his character, the mother died. 
Before her end, she had seen symptoms of her husband’s im- 
pending ruin ; and, determined that her daughter should not 
be dependent on his careless administration, nor on her son’s 
ominous selfishness and ambition, she secured effectually, 
from the covetousness of both, her own large fortune, which 
was settled on her daughter. She resisted every influence, 
and every art, employed to induce her to release this property, 
or allow it to merge in the family resources, and be made 
available towards relieving their embarrassments. And on her 
death-bed, among other solemn parental injunctions, she laid 
this on her daughter’s filial sense of duty, that she never would 
allow, after coming of age, any alteration in this arrangement 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


299 


Matters grew worse and worse ; creditors pressed ; property 
had been injudiciously disposed of ; when a mysterious person, 
called Eurotas, made his appearance in the family. No one 
but its head seemed to know him ; and he evidently looked 
upon him as at once a blessing and a curse, the bearer both of 
salvation and of ruin. 

The reader is in possession of Eurotas’s own revelations. It 
is sufficient to add that, being the elder brother, but conscious 
that his rough, morose, and sinister character did not fit him 
for sustaining the position of head of the family, and adminis- 
tering quietly a settled property, and having a haughty ambi- 
tion to raise his house into a nobler rank, and increase even 
its riches, he took but a moderate sum of money as capital, 
vanished for years, embarked in the desperate traffic of interior 
Asia, penetrated into China and India, and came back home 
with a large fortune, and a collection of rare gems, which helped 
his nephew’s brief career, but misguided him to ruin in Rome. 

Eurotas, instead of a rich family, into which to pour super- 
fluous wealth, found only a bankrupt house to save from ruin. 
But his family pride prevailed ; and, after many reproaches and 
bitter quarrels with his brother, but concealed from all else, he 
paid off his debts by the extinction of his own capital, and thus 
virtually became master of all the wreck of his brother’s pro- 
perty, and of the entire family. 

After a few years of weary life, the father sickened and died. 
On his death-bed he told Orontius that he had nothing to leave 
him, that all he had lived on for some years, the very house 
over his head, belonged to his friend Eurotas, whose relation- 
ship he did not further explain, whom he must look up to 
entirely for support and guidance. The youth thus found him- 
self, while full of pride, ambition, and voluptuousness, in the 
hands of a cold-hearted, remorseless, and no less ambitious 
man, who soon prescribed as the basis of mutual confidence, 
absolute submission to his will, while he should act in the 
capacity of an inferior, and the understood principle that 
nothing was too great or too little, nothing too good or too 
wicked to be done, to restore family position and wealth. 

To stay at Antioch was impossible after the ruin which had 
overtaken the house. With a good capital in hand, much 
might be done elsewhere. But now, even the sale of all left 
would scarcely cover the liabilities discovered after the father’s 
death. There was still untouched the sister’s fortune; and 
both agreed that this must be got from her. Every artifice was 
tried, every persuasion employed, but she simply and firmly 


300 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


resisted, both in obedience to her mother’s dying orders, and 
because she had in view the establishment of a house for con- 
secrated virgins, in which she intended to pass her days. She 
was now just of legal age to dispose of her own property. She 
offered them every advantage that she could give them ; pro- 
posed that for a time they should all live together upon her 
means. But this did not answer their purpose ; and when every 
other course had failed, Eurotas fyegan to hint that one who 
stood so much in their way should be got rid of at any cost. 

Orontius shuddered at the first proposal of the thought. 
Eurotas familiarised him gradually with it, till — shrinking yet 
from the actual commission of fratricide — he thought he had 
almost done something virtuous, as the brothers of Joseph 
imagined they did, by adopting a slower and less sanguinary 
method of dealing with an obnoxious brother. Stratagem and 
unseen violence, of which no law could take cognisance, and 
which no one would dare reveal, offered him the best chance 
of success. 

Among the privileges of Christians in the first ages, we have 
already mentioned that of reserving the Blessed Eucharist at 
home for domestic communion. We have described the way 
in which it was enfolded in an orarium , or linen cloth, again 
often preserved in a richer cover. This precious gift was kept 
in a chest (area) with a lid, as St. Cyprian has informed us . 1 
Orontius well knew this ; and he was moreover aware that its 
contents were more prized than silver or gold; that, as the 
Fathers tell us, to drop negligently a crumb of the consecrated 
bread was considered a crime ; 2 and that the name of “pearl,” 
which was given to the smallest fragment , 3 showed that it was 
so precious in a Christian’s eye, that he would part with all 
he possessed to rescue it from sacrilegious profanation. 

The scarf, richly embroidered with pearls, which has more 
than once affected our narrative, was the outer covering in 
which Miriam’s mother had preserved this treasure ; and her 
daughter valued it both as a dear inheritance, and as a conse- 
crated object, for she continued its use. 

1 “Cum arcam suam, in qua Domini sanctum fuit, manibus indignis 
tentasset aperire, igne inde surgente deterrita est, ne auderet attingere.” 
“When she attempted to open, with unworthy hands, her chest, in which 
was the holy (body) of our Lord, she was deterred from daring to touch it, 
by fire rising up from it.” — De Lapsis. 

8 See Martenne, De antiquis Ecclesia Ritibus. 

8 So in the Eastern liturgies. Fortunatus calls the Blessed Eucharist, 
“ Corporis Agni margaritum ingens. ” “ The huge pearl of the Body of the 
Lamb,” — Lib. iii. car. 25. 



“ Fabiola went down herself, and what was her distress at finding poor 
Emerentiana lying weltering in her blood.” — Page 305. 






THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


30 t 

One day, early in the morning, she knelt before her ark ; 
and, after fervent preparation by prayer, proceeded to open it 
To her dismay she found it already unlocked, and her treasure 
gone ! Like Mary Magdalen at the sepulchre, she wept bit- 
terly, because they had taken her Lord, and she knew not 
where they had laid Him. Like her, too, a as she was weeping 
she stooped down and looked ” again into her ark, and found 
a paper, which in the confusion of the first glance she had 
overlooked. 

It informed her that what she sought was safe in her 
brother’s hands, and might be ransomed. She ran at once to 
him, where he was closeted with the dark man, in whose pre- 
sence she always trembled ; threw herself on her knees before 
him, and entreated him to restore what she valued more than 
all her wealth. He was on the point of yielding to her tears 
and supplications, when Eurotas fixed his stern eye upon him, 
overawed him, then himself addressed her, saying — 

“ Miriam, we take you at your word. We wish to put the 
earnestness and reality of your faith to a sufficient test. Are 
you truly sincere in what you offer ? ” 

“ I will surrender anything, all I have, to rescue from pro- 
fanation the Holy' of Holies!” 

“ Then sign that paper,” said Eurotas, with a sneer. 

She took the pen in her hand, and after running her eye 
over the document, signed it. It was a surrender of her entire 
property to Eurotas. Orontius was furious when he saw him- 
self overreached by the man to whom he had suggested the 
snare for his sister. But it was too late; he was only the 
faster in his unsparing gripe. A more formal renunciation 
of her rights was exacted from Miriam, with the formalities 
required by the Roman law. 

For a short time she was treated soothingly; then hints 
began to be given to her of the necessity of moving, as Oron- 
tius and his friend intended to proceed to Nicomedia, the 
imperial residence. She asked to be sent to Jerusalem, where 
she would obtain admission into some community of holy 
women. She was accordingly embarked on board a vessel, 
the captain of which bore a suspicious character, and was very 
sparingly supplied with means. But she bore round her neck 
what she had given proof of valuing more than any wealth. 
For, as St. Ambrose relates of his brother Satyrus, yet a 
catechumen, Christians carried round their necks the Holy 
Eucharist, when embarking for a voyage. 1 We need not say 
1 De morte Satyri. 


302 FABIOLA ; OR, 

that Miriam bore it securely folded in the only thing of price 
she cared to take from her father’s house. 

When the vessel was out at sea, instead of coasting towards 
Joppe or any port on the coast, the captain stood straight out, 
as if making for some distant shore. What his purpose was, 
it was difficult to conjecture ; but his few passengers became 
alarmed, and a serious altercation ensued This was cut short 
by a sudden storm ; the vessel was carried forward at the 
mercy of the winds for some days, and then dashed to pieces 
on a rocky island near Cyprus. Like Satyrus, Miriam attri- 
buted her reaching the shore in safety to the precious burden 
which she bore. She was almost the only survivor ; at least 
she saw no other person saved. Those, therefore, that did live 
besides, on returning to Antioch, reported her death, together 
with that of the remaining passengers and crew. 

She was picked up on the shore by men who lived on such 
spoil. Destitute and friendless, she was sold to a trader in 
slaves, taken to Tarsus, on the mainland, and again sold to a 
person of high rank, who treated her with kindness. 

After a short time, Fabius instructed one of his agents in 
Asia to procure a slave of polished manners and virtuous char- 
acter, if possible, at any price, to attend on his daughter ; and 
Miriam, under the name of Syra, came to bring salvation to the 
house of Fabiola. 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

BRIGHT DEATH 

It was a few days after the occurrences related in our last 
chapter but one, that Fabiola was told that an old man in 
great anguish, real or pretended, desired to speak with her. 
On going down to him and asking him his name and business, 
he replied — 

“ My name, noble lady, is Ephraim ; and I have a large debt 
secured on the property of the late Lady Agnes, which I under- 
stand has now passed into your hands ; and I am come, therefore, 
to claim it from you, for otherwise I am a ruined man ! ” 

“ How is that possible ? ” asked Fabiola, in amazement. “ I 
cannot believe that my cousin ever contracted debts.” 

“No, not she” rejoined the usurer, a little abashed; “but a 
gentleman called Fulvius, to whom the property was to come 
by confiscation ; so I advanced him large sums upon it.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 303 

Her first impulse was to turn the man out of the house ; but 
the thought of the sister came to her mind, and she civilly said 
to him — 

“Whatever debts Fulvius has contracted I will discharge; 
but with only legal interest, and without regard to usurious 
contracts.” 

“But think of the risks I ran, madam. I have been most 
moderate in my rates, I assure you.” 

“Well,” she answered, “call on my steward, and he shall 
settle all. You are running no risks now at least.” 

She gave instructions, accordingly, to the freed-man who 
managed her affairs, to pay this sum on those conditions, 
which reduced it to one-half the demand. But she soon 
engaged him in a more laborious task, that of going through the 
whole of her late father’s accounts, and ascertaining every case 
of injury or oppression, that restitution might be made. And 
further, having ascertained that Corvinus had really obtained 
the imperial rescript, through his father, by which her own 
lawful property was saved from confiscation, though she refused 
ever to see him, she bestowed upon him such a remuneration 
as would ensure him comfort through life. 

These temporal matters being soon disposed of, she divided 
her attention between the care of the patient and preparation 
for her Christian initiation. To promote Miriam’s recovery, 
she removed her, with a small portion of her household, to a 
spot dear to both, the Nomentan villa. The spring had set in, 
and Miriam could have her couch brought to the window, or, 
in the warmest part of the day, could even be carried down 
into the garden before the house, where, with Fabiola on one 
side and Emerentiana on the other, and poor Molossus, who 
had lost all his spirit, at her feet, they would talk of friends 
lost, and especially of her with whom every object around was 
associated in their memories. And no sooner was the name 
of Agnes mentioned, than her old faithful guard would prick 
up his ears and wag his tail, and look around him. They 
would also frequently discourse on Christian subjects, when 
Miriam would follow up, humbly and unpretendingly, but with 
the warm glow which had first charmed Fabiola, the instructions 
given by the holy Dionysius. 

Thus, for instance, when he had been treating of the virtue 
and meaning of the sign of the cross to be used in baptism, 
“ whether on the forehead of believers, or over the water, by 
which they were to be regenerated, or the oil with which, as 
well as the chrism, they were anointed, or the sacrifice by 


304 


fabiola; or, 

which they are fed ; ” 1 Miriam explained to the catechumens 
its more domestic and practical use, and exhorted them to 
practise faithfully what all good Christians did, that is, to make 
this holy sign upon themselves already, “in the course and at 
the beginning of every work, on coming in and going out, when 
putting on their clothes or sandals, when they washed, sat down 
to table, lighted their lamp, lay down in bed, or sat on a chair, 
in whatever conversation they should be engaged.” 2 

But it was observed with pain, by all but Fabiola, that the 
patient, though the wound had healed, did not gain strength. 
It is often the mother or sister that is last to see the slow waste 
of illness in child or sister. Love is so hopeful, and so blind ! 
There was a hectic flush on her cheek, she was emaciated and 
weak, and a slight cough was heard from time to time. She 
lay long awake, and she desired to have her bed so placed that 
from early dawn she could look out upon one spot more fair to 
them all than the richest parterre. 

There had long been in the villa an entrance to the cemetery 
on this road ; but from this time it had already received the 
name of Agnes, for near its entrance had this holy martyr been 
buried. Her body rested in a cubiculum or chamber, under an 
arched tomb. Just above the entrance into this chamber, and 
in the middle of the grounds, was an opening, surrounded above 
by a low parapet, concealed by shrubs, which gave light and air 
to the room below. Towards this point Miriam loved to look, 
as the nearest approach she could make, in her infirm health, to 
the sepulchre of one whom she so much venerated and loved. 

Early one morning, beautiful and calm, for it wanted but a 
few weeks to Easter, she was looking in that direction, when she 
observed half-a-dozen young men, who on their way to angle in 
the neighbouring Anio, were taking a short cut across the villa, 
and so committing a trespass. They passed by this opening ; 
and one of them, having looked down, called the others. 

“This is one of those underground lurking-places of the 
Christians.” 

“ One of their rabbit-holes into the burrow.” 

“Let us go in,” said one. 

“Yes, and how shall we get up again?” asked a second. 

This dialogue she could not hear, but she saw what followed 
it. One who had looked down more carefully, shading his 
eyes from the light, called the others to do the same, but with 

1 St. Aug. Tract, cxviii. in Joan. 

2 Tertullian (who lived earlier than two hundred years after Christ, and 
is the oldest Latin ecclesiastical writer), de Corona Milit. c. 3, 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


305 


gestures which enjoined silence. In a moment they pulled down 
large stones from the rock-work of a fountain close at hand, and 
threw down a volley of them at something below. They laughed 
very heartily as they went away; and Miriam supposed that they 
had seen some serpent or other noxious animal below, and had 
amused themselves with pelting it. 

When others were stirring she mentioned the occurrence, that 
the stones might be removed. Fabiola went down herself with 
a few servants, for she was jealous of the custody of Agnes’s 
tomb. What was her distress at finding poor Emerentiana 
gone down to pray at her foster-sister’s tomb, lying weltering 
in her blood, and perfectly dead. It was discovered that, the 
evening before, passing by some Pagan orgies near the river, 
and being invited to join in them, she had not only refused, 
but had reproached the partakers in them with their wicked- 
ness, and with their cruelties to Christians. They assailed her 
with stones, and grievously wounded her ; but she escaped from 
their fury into the villa. Feeling herself faint and wounded, she 
crept unnoticed to the tomb of Agnes, there to pray. She had 
been unable to move away when some of her former assailants 
discovered her. Those brutal Pagans had anticipated the 
ministry of the Church, and had conferred upon her the bap- 
tism of blood. She was buried near Agnes, and the modest 
peasant child received the honour of annual commemoration 
among the Saints. 

Fabiola and her companions went through the usual course 
of preparation, though abridged on account of the persecution. 
By living at the very entrance into a cemetery, and one fur- 
nished with such large churches, they were enabled to pass 
through the three stages of catechumenship. First they were 
hearers} admitted to be present, while the lessons were read ; 
then kneelers , 2 who assisted at a portion of the liturgical prayers ; 
and lastly, elect, or petitioners 3 for baptism. 

Once in this last class, they had to attend frequently in 
church, but more particularly on the three Wednesdays follow- 
ing the first, the fourth, and the last Sundays in Lent, on which 
days the Roman Missal yet retains a second collect and lesson, 
derived from this custom. Any one perusing the present rite 
of baptism in the Catholic Church, especially that of adults, 
will see condensed into one office what used to be anciently 
distributed through a variety of functions. On one day the 
renunciation of Satan was made, previous to its repetition just 
before baptism; on another the touching of the ears and 
1 Audientes. 2 Genuflectentes. 8 Electi and competentes. 

U 


306 fabiola; of, 

nostrils, or the Ephpheta , as it was called. Then were repeated 
exorcisms, and genuflections, and signings of crosses on the 
forehead and body , 1 breathings upon the candidate, and other 
mysterious rites. More solemn still was the unction, which was 
not confined to the head, but extended to the whole body. 

The Creed was also faithfully learnt, and committed to 
memory. But the doctrine of the Blessed Eucharist was not 
imparted till after baptism. 

In these multiplied preparatory exercises the penitential time 
of Lent passed quickly and solemnly, till at last Easter-eve 
arrived. 

It does not fall to our lot to describe the ceremonial of the 
Church in the administration of the Sacraments. The liturgical 
system received its great developments after peace had been 
gained ; and much that belongs to outward forms and splen- 
dour was incompatible with the bitter persecution which the 
Church was undergoing. 

It is enough for us to have shown, how not only doctrines 
and great sacred rites, but how even ceremonies and accessories 
were the same in the three first centuries as now. If our 
example is thought worth following, some one will perhaps 
illustrate a brighter period than we have chosen. 

The baptism of Fabiola and her household had nothing to 
cheer it but purely spiritual joy. The titles in the city were 
all closed, and among them that of St. Pastor with its papal 
baptistery. 

Early, therefore, on the morning of the auspicious day, the 
party crept round the walls to the opposite side of the city, 
and following the Via Portuensis, or road that led to the port 
at the mouth of the Tiber, turned into a vineyard near Caesar’s 
gardens, and descended into the cemetery of Pontianus, cele- 
brated as the resting-place of the Persian martyrs, SS. Abdon 
and Sennen. 

The morning was spent in prayer and preparation, when 
towards evening the solemn office, which was to be protracted 
through the night, commenced. 

When the time for the administration of baptism arrived, it 
was indeed but a dreary celebration that it introduced. Deep 
in the bowels of the earth the waters of a subterraneous stream 
had been gathered into a square well or cistern, from four to 
five feet deep. . They were clear, indeed, but cold and bleak, 
if we may use the expression, in their subterranean bath, formed 

1 These will be found, particularly in the baptism of adults, joined with 
repetitions of the Our Father . 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


307 

out of the tufo , or volcanic rock. A long flight of steps led 
down to this rude baptistery, a small ledge at the side sufficed 
for the minister and the candidate, who was thrice immersed 
in the purifying waters. 

The whole remains to this day, just as it was then, except 
that over the water is now to be seen a painting of St. John 
baptizing our Lord, added probably a century or two later. 

Immediately after Baptism followed Confirmation, and then 
the neophyte, or new-born child of the Church, after due in- 
struction, was admitted for the first time to the table of his 
Lord, and nourished with the Bread of angels. 

It was not till late on Easter-day that Fabiola returned to 
her villa ; and a long and silent embrace was her first greeting 
of Miriam. Both were so happy, so blissful, so fully repaid 
for all that they had been to one another for months, that no 
words could give expression to their feelings. Fabiola’s grand 
idea and absorbing pride that day was, that now she had risen 
to the level of her former slave : not in virtue, not in beauty 
of character, not in greatness of mind, not in heavenly wisdom, 
not in merit before God ; oh ! no ; in all this she felt herself 
infinitely her inferior. But as a child of God, as heiress to an 
eternal kingdom, as a living member of the body of Christ, as 
admitted to a share in all His mercies, to all the price of His 
redemption, as a new creature in Him, she felt that she was 
equal to Miriam, and with happy glee she told her so. 

Never had she been so proud of splendid garment as she 
was of the white robe, which she had received as she came out 
of the font, and which she had to wear for eight days. 

But a merciful Father knows how to blend our joys and 
sorrows, and sends us the latter when He has best prepared 
us for them. In that warm embrace which we have mentioned, 
she for the first time noticed the shortened breath and heaving 
chest of her dear sister. She would not dwell upon it in her 
thoughts, but sent to beg Dionysius to come on the morrow. 
That evening they all kept their Easter banquet together ; and 
Fabiola felt happy to preside at Miriam’s side over a table at 
which reclined or sat her own converted slaves, and those of 
Agnes’s household, all of whom she had retained. She never 
remembered having enjoyed so delightful a supper. 

Early next morning, Miriam called Fabiola to her side, and 
with a fond, caressing manner, which she had never before 
displayed, said to her — 

“ My dear sister, what will you do when I have left you ? ” 

Poor Fabiola was overpowered with grief. “ Are you then 


fabiola; or, 


308 

going to leave me ? I had hoped we should live for ever as 
sisters together. But if you wish to leave Rome, may I not 
accompany you, at least to nurse you, to serve you ? ” 

Miriam smiled, but a tear was in her eye, as taking her 
sister’s hand, she pointed up towards heaven. Fabiola under- 
stood her, and said : “ Oh no, no, dearest sister. Pray to God, 
who will refuse you nothing, that I may not lose you- It is 
selfish, I know ; but what can I do without you ? And now 
too, that I have learnt how much they who reign with Christ 
can do for us by intercession, I will pray to Agnes 1 and Sebas- 
tian to interpose for me, and avert so great a calamity. 

“ Do get well : I am sure there is nothing serious in the 
matter; the warm weather and the genial climate of Cam- 
pania will soon restore you. We will sit again together by the 
spring, and talk over better things than philosophy.” 

Miriam shook her head, not mournfully, but cheerfully, as 
she replied — 

“ Do not flatter yourself, dearest ; God has spared me till I 
should see this happy day. But His hand is on me now for 
death, as it has been hitherto for life ; and I hail it with joy. 
I know too well the number of my days.” 

“ Oh ! let it not be so soon ! ” sobbed out Fabiola. 

“ Not while you have on your white garment, dear sister,” 
answered Miriam. “ I know you would wish to mourn for me; 
but I would not rob you of one hour of your mystic whiteness.” 

Dionysius came, and saw a great change in his patient, whom 
he had not visited for some time. It was as he had feared it 
might be. The insidious point of the dagger had curled round 
the bone, and injured the pleura, and phthisis had rapidly set 
in. He confirmed Miriam’s most serious anticipations. 

Fabiola went to pray for resignation at the sepulchre of 
Agnes ; she prayed long and fervently, and with many tears, 
then returned. 

1 “ Agnae sepulchrum est Romulea in domo, 

Fortis puellae, martyris inclitae. 

Conspectu in ipso condita turrium 
Servat salutem virgo Quiritum : 

Necnon et ipsos protegit advenas, 

Puro ac fideli pectore supplices.” 

— Prudentius , 

“ The tomb of Agnes graces Rome, 

A maiden brave, a martyr great. 

Resting in sight of bastioned gate, 

From harm the virgin shields her home ; 

Nor to the stranger help denies, 

If sought with pure and faithful sighs.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 309 

“ Sister,” she said with firmness, “ God’s will be done, I am 
ready to resign even you to Him. Now, tell me, I entreat you, 
what would you have me do after you are taken from me ? ” 

Miriam looked up to heaven, and answered, “ Lay my body 
at the feet of Agnes, and remain to watch over us, to pray to 
her, and for me, until a stranger shall arrive from the East, the 
bearer of good tidings.” 

On the Sunday following, “Sunday of the white garments,” 
Dionysius celebrated, by special permission, the sacred mys- 
teries in Miriam’s room, and administered to her the most 
holy Communion, as her viaticum. This private celebration, 
as we know from St. Augustine and others, was not a rare 
privilege . 1 Afterwards, he anointed her with oil, accompanied 
by prayer, the last Sacrament which the Church bestows. 

Fabiola and the household who had attended these solemn 
rites, with tears and prayers, now descended into the crypt, 
and after the divine offices returned to Miriam in their darker 
raiment. 

“The hour is come,” said she, taking Fabiola’s hand. 
“ Forgive me, if I have been wanting in duty to you, and in 
good example.” 

This was more than Fabiola could stand, and she burst into 
tears. Miriam soothed her, and said, “ Put to my lips the sign 
of salvation when I can speak no more ; and, good Dionysius, 
remember me at God’s altar when I am departed.” 

He prayed at her side, and she replied, till at length her 
voice failed her. But her lips moved, and she pressed them 
on the cross presented to her. She looked serene and joyful, 
till at length raising her hand to her forehead, then bringing it 
to her breast, it fell dead there, in making the saving sign. A 
smile passed over her face, and she expired, as thousands of 
Christ’s children have expired since. 

Fabiola mourned much over her ; but this time she mourned 
as they do who have hope. 

1 St. Ambrose said Mass in the house of a lady beyond the Tiber 
(Paulinus, in his Life, tom. ii. Oper. ed. Bened.). St. Augustine mentions 
a priest’s saying Mass in a house supposed to be infested with evil spirits. 
— De Civ . Z>. lib. xxii. c. 8 . 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


310 


PART THIRD— VICTORY 

CHAPTER I 

THE STRANGER FROM TIIE EAST 

We appear to ourselves to be walking in solitude. One by one, 
those whose words and actions, and even thoughts, have hitherto 
accompanied and sustained us, have dropped off, and the pros- 
pect around looks very dreary. But is all this unnatural? 
We have been describing not an ordinary period of peace 
and every-day life, but one of warfare, strife, and battle. Is it 
unnatural that the bravest, the most heroic should have fallen 
thick around us ? We have been reviving the memory of the 
cruellest persecution which the Church ever suffered, when it 
was proposed to erect a column bearing the inscription that the 
Christian name had been extinguished. Is it strange that the 
holiest and purest should have been the earliest to be crowned? 

And yet the Church of Christ has still to sustain many years 
of sharper persecution than we have described. A succession 
of tyrants and oppressors kept up the fearful war upon her, 
without intermission, in one part of the world or another for 
twenty years, even after Constantine had checked it wherever 
his power reached. Dioclesian, Galerius, Maximinus, and 
Licinius in the East, Maximian and Maxentius in the West, 
allowed no rest to the Christians under their several dominions. 
Like one of those rolling storms which go over half the world, 
visiting various countries with their ravaging energy, while their 
gloomy foreboding or sullen wake simultaneously overshadow 
them all, so did this persecution wreak its fury first on one 
country, then on another, destroying everything Christian, 
passing from Italy to Africa, from Upper Asia to Palestine, 
Egypt, and then back to Armenia, while it left no place in 
actual peace, but hung like a blighting storm-cloud over the 
entire empire. 

And yet the Church increased, prospered, and defied this 
world of sin. Pontiff stepped after Pontiff at once upon the 
footstool of the papal throne and upon the scaffold ; councils 
were held in the dark halls of the catacombs ; bishops came 
to Rome, at risk of their lives, to consult the successor of St, 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 3 1 I 

Peter ; letters were exchanged between Churches far distant 
and the supreme Ruler of Christendom, and between different 
Churches, full of sympathy, encouragement, and affection ; 
bishop succeeded bishop in his see, and ordained priests and 
other ministers to take the place of the fallen, and be a mark 
set upon the bulwarks of the city for the enemy’s aim; and 
the work of Christ’s imperishable kingdom went on without 
interruption, and without fear of extinction. 

Indeed it was in the midst of all these alarms and conflicts 
that the foundations were being laid of a mighty system destined 
to produce stupendous effects in after ages. The persecution 
drove many from the cities into the deserts of Egypt, where 
the monastic state grew up, so as to make “the wilderness 
rejoice and flourish like the lily, bud forth and blossom, and 
rejoice with joy and praise.” 1 And so, when Dioclesian had 
been degraded from the purple, and had died a peevish destitute 
old man, and Galerius had been eaten up alive by ulcers and 
worms, and had acknowledged, by public edict, the failure of 
his attempts, and Maximian Herculeus had strangled himself, 
and Maxentius had perished in the Tiber, and Maximinus had 
expired amidst tortures inflicted by Divine justice equal to any 
he had inflicted on Christians, his very eyes having started from 
their sockets, and Licinius had been put to death by Constan- 
tine; the spouse of Christ, whom they had all conspired to 
destroy, stood young and blooming as ever, about to enter into 
her great career of universal diffusion and rule. 

It was in the year 313 that Constantine, having defeated 
Maxentius, gave full liberty to the Church. Even if ancient 
writers had not described it, we may imagine the joy and 
gratitude of the poor Christians on this great change. It was 
like the coming forth, and tearful though happy greeting, of 
the inhabitants of a city decimated by plague, when proclama- 
tion has gone forth that the infection has ceased. For here, 
after ten years of separation and concealment, when families 
could scarcely meet in the cemeteries nearest to them, many 
did not know who among friends 01 kinsfolk had fallen 
victims, or who might yet survive. Timid at first, and then 
more courageous, they ventured forth ; soon the places of old 
assembly, which children born in the last ten years had not 
seen, were cleansed, or repaired, refitted and reconciled, 2 and 
opened to public, and now fearless, worship. 

Constantine also ordered all property, public or private, belong- 
1 Isa. xxxv. 1, 2. 

2 The ceremony employed after desecration. 


J 


fabiola; or, 


I 2 

ing to Christians and confiscated, to be restored ; but with the 
wise provision that the actual holders should be indemnified 
by the imperial treasury. 1 The Church was soon in motion to 
bring out all the resources of her beautiful forms and institu- 
tions ; and either the existing basilicas were converted to her uses, 
or new ones were built on the most cherished spots of Rome. 

Let not the reader fear that we are going to lead him for- 
ward into a long history. This will belong to some one better 
qualified for the task of unfolding the grandeur and charms of 
free and unfettered Christianity. We have only to show the 
land of promise from above, spread like an inviting paradise 
before our feet; we are not the Josue that must lead others in. 
The little that we have to add in this brief third part of our 
humble book is barely what is necessary for its completion. 

We will then Suppose ourselves arrived at the year 318, 
fifteen years after our last scene of death. Time and per- 
manent laws have given security to the Christian religion, and 
the Church is likewise more fully establishing her organisation. 
Many who on the return of peace had hung down their heads, 
having by some act of weak condescension escaped death, had 
by this time expiated their fall by penance ; and now and then 
an aged stranger would be saluted reverently by the passers-by, 
when they saw that his right eye had been burnt out, or his 
hand mutilated ; or when his halting gait showed that the ten- 
dons of the knee had been severed, in the late persecution, for 
Christ’s sake. 2 

If at this period our friendly reader will follow us out of 
the Nomentan gate, to the valley with which he is already 
acquainted, he will find sad havoc among the beautiful trees 
and flower-beds of Fabiola’s villa. Scaffold-poles are standing 
up in place of the first ; bricks, marbles, and columns lie upon 
the latter. Constantia, the daughter of Constantine, had prayed 
at St. Agnes’s tomb, when not yet a Christian, to beg the cure 
of a virulent ulcer, had been refreshed by a vision, and com- 
pletely cured. Being now baptized, she was repaying her debt 
of gratitude, by building over her tomb her beautiful basilica. 
Still the faithful had access to the crypt in which she was 
buried ; and great was the concourse of pilgrims that came 
from all parts of the world. 

One afternoon, when Fabiola returned from the city to her 

1 Euseb. H. E. lib. x. c. 5. 

2 In the East, some governors, wearied with wholesale murders, adopted 
this more merciful way of treating Christians towards the end of the perse- 
cution. See Eusebius. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 3 I 3 

villa, after spending the day in attending to the sick, in an hos- 
pital established in her own house, the fossor , who had charge 
of the cemetery, met her with an air of great interest, and no 
small excitement, and said — 

“Madam, I sincerely believe that the stranger from the 
East, whom you have so long expected, has arrived.” 

Fabiola, who had ever treasured up the dying words of 
Miriam, eagerly asked, “ Where is he ? ” 

“ He is gone again,” was the reply. 

The lady’s countenance fell. “ But how,” she asked again, 
“ do you know it was he ? ” 

The excavator replied, “In the course of the morning I 
noticed among the crowd a man not yet fifty, but worn by 
mortification and sorrow to premature old age. His hair was 
nearly grey, as was his long beard. His dress was eastern, and 
he wore the cloak which the monks from that country usually 
do. When he came before the tomb of Agnes, he flung himself 
upon the pavement with such a passion of tears, such groans, 
such sobs, as moved all around to compassion. Many ap- 
proached him, and whispered, ‘ Brother, thou art in great 
distress ; weep not so, the saint is merciful.’ Others said to 
him, ‘We will all pray for thee, fear not .’ 1 But he seemed to 
be beyond comfort. I thought to myself, surely in the pre- 
sence of so gentle and kind a saint, none ought to be thus 
disconsolate or heartbroken, except only one man.” 

“Go on, go on,” broke in Fabiola ; “what did he next?” 

“ After a long time,” continued the fossor, “ he arose, and 
drawing from his bosom a most beautiful and sparkling ring, 
he laid it on her tomb. I thought I had seen it before, many 
years ago.” 

“And then?” 

“ Turning round he saw me, and recognised my dress. He 
approached me, and I could feel him trembling, as, without 
looking in my face, he timidly asked me, ‘Brother, knowest 
thou if there lie buried anywhere hereabout a maiden from 
Syria, called Miriam ? ’ I pointed silently to the tomb. After 
a pause of great pain to himself, so agitated now that his voice 
faltered, he asked me again, ‘Knowest thou, brother, of what 
she died?’ ‘Of consumption,’ I replied. ‘Thank God!’ he 
ejaculated, with the sigh of relieved anguish, and fell prostrate 
on the ground. Here too he moaned and cried for more than 
an houf, then, approaching the tomb, affectionately kissed its 
cover, and retired.” 

1 This scene is described from reality. 


314 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


“ It is he, Torquatus, it is he ! ” warmly exclaimed Fabiola ; 
“ why did you not detain him ? ” 

“ I durst not, lady ; after I had once seen his face, I had 
not courage to meet his eye. But I am sure he will return 
again ; for he went towards the city.” 

“ He must be found,” concluded Fabiola. “ Dear Miriam, 
thou hadst, then, this consoling foresight in death ! ” 


CHAPTER II 

THE STRANGER IN ROME 

Early next morning, the pilgrim was passing through the 
Forum, when he saw a group of persons gathered round one 
whom they were evidently teasing. He would have paid but little 
attention to such a scene in a public thoroughfare, had not his 
ear caught a name familiar to it. He therefore drew nigh. In 
the centre was a man, younger than himself ; but if he looked 
older than he was, from being wan and attenuated, the other 
did so much more from being the very contrary. He was bald 
and bloated, with a face swelled, and red, and covered with 
blotches and boils. A drunken cunning swam in his eye, and 
his gait and tone were those of a man habitually intoxicated. 
His clothes were dirty, and his whole person neglected. 

“ Ay, ay, Corvinus,” one youth was saying to him, “ won’t 
you get your deserts now? Have you not heard that Con- 
stantine is coming this year to Rome, and don’t you think the 
Christians will have their turn about now ? ” 

“ Not they,” answered the man we have described ; “ they 
have not the pluck for it. I remember we feared it when Con- 
stantine published his first edict, after the death of Maxentius, 
about liberty for the Christians, but next year he put us out of 
fear by declaring all religions to be equally permitted .” 1 

“ That is all very well, as a general rule,” interposed another, 
determined further to plague him; “but is it not supposed that 
he is going to look up those who took an active part in the late 
persecution, and have the lex talionis 2 executed on them; stripe 
for stripe, burning for burning, and wild beast for wild beast ? ” 

“ Who says so ? ” asked Corvinus, turning pale. 

1 Eusebius, ubi sup. 

2 The law of retaliation, such as was prescribed also in the Mosaic law, 
“an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” &c. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


315 


“Why, it would surely be very natural,” said one. 

“And very just,” added another. 

“ Oh, never mind,” said Corvinus, “they will always let one off 
for turning Christian. And, I am sure, I would turn anything, 
rather than stand ” 

“ Where Pancratius stood,” interposed a third, more malicious. 

“ Hold your tongue,” broke out the drunkard, with a tone of 
positive rage. “ Mention his name again, if you dare ! ” And 
he raised his fist, and looked furiously at the speaker. 

“Ay, because he told you how you were to die,” shouted the 
youngster, running away. “ Heigh ! heigh ! a panther here for 
Corvinus ! ” 

All ran away before the human beast, now lashed into fury, 
more than they would have done from the wild one of the 
desert. He cursed them, and threw stones after them 

The pilgrim, from a short distance, watched the close of the 
scene, then went on. Corvinus moved slower along the same 
road, that which led towards the Lateran basilica, now the Cathe- 
dral of Rome. Suddenly a sharp growl was heard, and with it 
a piercing shriek. As they were passing by the Coliseum, near 
the dens of the wild beasts, which were prepared for combats 
among themselves, on occasion of the emperor’s visit, Corvinus, 
impelled by the morbid curiosity natural to persons who consider 
themselves victims of some fatality, connected with a particular 
object, approached the cage in which a splendid panther was 
kept. He went close to the bars, and provoked the animal, by 
gestures and words, saying, “Very likely, indeed, that you are to 
be the death of me ! You are very safe in your den.” In that 
instant, the enraged animal made a spring at him, and through 
the wide bars of the den, caught his neck and throat in its fangs, 
and inflicted a frightful lacerated wound. 

The wretched man was picked up, and carried to his lodgings, 
not far off. The stranger followed him, and found them mean, 
dirty, and uncomfortable in the extreme ; with only an old and 
decrepit slave, apparently as sottish as his master, to attend him. 
The stranger sent him out to procure a surgeon, who was long in 
coming; and, in the meantime, did his best to stanch the blood. 

While he was so occupied, Corvinus fixed his eyes upon him 
with a look of one delirious, or demented. 

“ Do you know me?” asked the pilgrim soothingly. 

“ Know you ? No — yes. Let me see — Ha ! the fox ! my fox ! 
Do you remember our hunting together those hateful Christians? 
Where have you been all this time ? How many of them have 
you caught ? ” And he laughed outrageously. 


31 6 FABIOLA ; OR, 

“ Peace, peace, Corvinus,” replied the other. “ You must be 
very quiet, or there is no hope for you. Besides, I do not wish 
you to allude to those times ; for I am myself now a Christian.” 

“ You a Christian? ” broke out Corvinus savagely. “You who 
have shed more of their best blood than any man ? Have you 
been forgiven for all this ? Or have you slept quietly upon it ? 
Have no furies lashed you at night ? no phantoms haunted you ? 
no viper sucked your heart ? If so, tell me how you have got 
rid of them all, that I may do the same. If not, they will come, 
they will come ! Vengeance and fury ! why should they not 
have tormented you as much as me ? ” 

“ Silence, Corvinus ; I have suffered as you have. But I have 
found the remedy, and will make it known to you, as soon as 
the physician has seen you, for he is approaching.” 

The doctor saw him, dressed the wound, but gave little hope 
of recovery, especially in a patient whose very blood was tainted 
by intemperance. 

The stranger now resumed his seat beside him, and spoke 
of the mercy of God, and His readiness to forgive the worst of 
sinners ; whereof he himself was a living proof. The unhappy 
man seemed to be in a sort of stupor ; if he listened, not com- 
prehending what was said. At length his kind instructor, having 
expounded to him the fundamental mysteries of Christianity, 
in hope, rather than certainty, of being attended to, went on to 
say, “ And now, Corvinus, you will ask me, how is forgiveness 
to be applied to one who believes all this ? It is by Baptism, 
by being born again of water and the Holy Ghost.” 

“ What ? ” exclaimed the sick man loathingly. 

“ By being washed in the laver of regenerating water.” 

He was interrupted by a convulsive growl rather than a 
moan. “Water! water! no water for me! Take it away!” 
And a strong spasm seized the patient’s throat. 

His attendant was alarmed, but sought to calm him. “ Think 
not,” he said, “ that you are to be taken hence in your present 
fever, and to be plunged into water ” (the sick man shuddered, 
and moaned) ; “ in clinical baptism , 1 a few drops suffice, not 
more than is in this pitcher.” And he showed him the water 
in a small vessel. At the sight of it, the patient writhed and 
foamed at the mouth, and was shaken by a violent convulsion. 
The sounds that proceeded from him resembled a howl from a 
wild beast more than any utterance of human lips. 

1 Clinical baptism, or that of persons confined to their beds, was ad- 
ministered by pouring or sprinkling the water on the head. See Bingham, 
book xi. c. II. 




Plumbatai. Whips made of 
brass chains to which are 
attached leaden balls. 


*Volseilce % Tweezers or Tongs. 





Instruments of torture used against the Christians, 



THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 3 I 7 

The pilgrim saw at once that hydrophobia, with all its horrible 
symptoms, had come upon the patient, from the bite of the en- 
raged animal. It was with difficulty that he and the servant 
could hold him down at times. Occasionally he broke out into 
frightful paroxysms of blasphemous violence against God and 
man. And then, when this subsided, he would go on moaning 
thus : “ Water they want to give me ! water ! water ! none for 
me ! It is fire ! fire ! that I have, and that is my portion. I am 
already on fire, within, without ! Look how it comes creeping 
up, all round me, it advances every moment nearer and nearer ! ” 
And he beat off the fancied flame with his hands on either side 
of his bed, and he blew at it round his head. Then turning 
towards his sorrowful attendants, he would say, “ Why don’t 
you put it out ? you see it is already burning me.” 

Thus passed the dreary day, and thus came the dismal night, 
when the fever increased, and with it the delirium, and the vio- 
lent accesses of fury, though the body was sinking. At length 
he raised himself up in bed, and looking with half-glazed eyes 
straight before him, he exclaimed in a voice choked with bitter 
rage : “ Away, Pancratius, begone ! Thou hast glared on me long 
enough. Keep back thy panther ! Hold it fast ; it is going to 
fly at my throat. It comes ! Oh ! ” And with a convulsive 
grasp, as if pulling the beast from off his throat, he plucked 
away the bandage from his wound. A gush of blood poured 
over him, and he fell back a hideous corpse upon the bed. 

His friend saw how unrepenting persecutors died. 


CHAPTER III 

AND LAST 

The next morning, the pilgrim proceeded to discharge the 
business which had been interfered with by the circumstances 
related in the preceding chapter. He might have been first 
seen busily employed inquiring after some one about the 
Januses in the Forum. At length the person was found ; and 
the two walked towards a dirty little office under the Capitol, 
on the ascent called the Clivus Asyli. Old musty books were 
brought out, and searched column after column, till they came 
to the date of the “ Consuls Dioclesian Augustus, the eighth 
time, and Maximian Herculeus Augustus, the seventh time .” 1 

1 a.d. 303. 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


318 

Here they found sundry entries, with reference to certain docu- 
ments. A roll of mouldy parchments of that date was pro- 
duced, docketed as referred to, and the number corresponding 
to the entries was drawn out, and examined. The result of 
the investigation seemed perfectly satisfactory to both parties. 

“ It is the first time in my life,” said the owner of the den, “that 
I ever knew a person who had got clear off, come back, after fifteen 
years, to inquire after his debts. A Christian, I presume, sir?” 

“ Certainly, by God’s mercy.” 

“ I thought as much ; good morning, sir. I shall be happy 
to accommodate you at any time, at as reasonable rates as my 
father Ephraim, now with Abraham. A great fool that for his 
pains, I must say, begging his pardon,” he added, when the 
stranger was out of hearing. 

With a decided step and a brighter countenance than he had 
yet displayed, he went straight to the villa on the Nomentan way; 
and after again paying his devotions in the crypt, but with a lighter 
heart, he at once addressed the fossor, as if they had never been 
parted: “Torquatus, can I speak with the Lady Fabiola?” 

“ Certainly,” answered the other ; “ come this way.” 

Neither alluded, as they went along, to old times, nor to the 
intermediate history of either. There seemed to be an under- 
standing, instinctive to both, that all the past was to be obli- 
terated before men, as they hoped it was before God. Fabiola 
had remained at home that and the preceding day, in hopes of 
the stranger’s return. She was seated in the garden close to a 
fountain, when Torquatus, pointing to her, retired. 

She rose, as she saw the long-expected visitor approach, and 
an indescribable emotion thrilled through her, when she found 
herself standing in his presence. 

“ Madam,” he said, in a tone of deep humility and earnest 
simplicity, “ I should never have presumed to present myself 
before you, had not an obligation of justice, as well as many of 
gratitude, obliged me.” 

“ Orontius,” she replied — “ is this the name by which I must 
address you?” (he signified his assent) “you can have no 
obligations towards me, except that which our great Apostle 
charges on us, that we love one another.” 

“ I know you feel so. And therefore I would not have pre- 
tended, unworthy as I am, to intrude upon you for any lower 
motive than one of strict duty. I know what gratitude I owe 
you for the kindness and affection lavished upon one now dearer 
to me than any sister can be on earth, and how you discharged 
towards her the offices of love which I had neglected.” 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


319 

“And thereby sent her to me,” interposed Fabiola, “to be 
my angel of life. Remember, Orontius, that Joseph was sold 
by his brethren, only that he might save his race.” 

“ You are too good indeed towards one so worthless,” resumed 
the pilgrim ; “ but I will not thank you for your kindness to an- 
other who has repaid you so richly. Only this morning I have 
learnt your mercy to one who could have no claim upon you.” 

“ I do not understand you,” observed Fabiola. 

“ Then I will tell you all plainly,” rejoined Orontius. “ I have 
now been for many years a member of one of those communities 
in Palestine, of men who live separated from the world in desert 
places, 'dividing their day, and even their night, between singing 
the Divine praises, contemplation, and the labour of their hands. 
Severe penance for our past transgressions, fasting, mourning, 
and prayer form the great duty of our penitential state. Have 
you heard of such men here ? ” 

“ The fame of holy Paul and Anthony is as great in the West 
as in the East,” replied the lady. 

“ It is with the greatest disciple of the latter that I have lived, 
supported by his great example, and the consolation he has 
given me. But one thought troubled me, and prevented my 
feeling complete assurance of safety, even after years of expia- 
tion. Before I left Rome I had contracted a heavy debt, which 
must have been accumulating at a frightful rate of interest, till it 
had reached an overwhelming amount. Yet it was an obligation 
deliberately contracted, and not to be justly evaded. I was a 
poor cenobite , 1 barely living on the produce of the few palm-leaf 
mats that I could weave, and the scanty herbs that would grow 
in the sand. How could I discharge my obligations ? 

“ Only one means remained. I could give myself up to my 
creditor as a slave, to labour for him and endure his blows and 
scornful reproaches in patience, or to be sold by him for my 
value, for I am yet strong. In either case, I should have had 
my Saviour’s example to cheer and support me. At any rate, 
I should have given up all that I had — myself. 

“ I went this morning to the Forum, found my creditor’s son, 
examined his accounts, and found that you had discharged my 
debt in full. I am, therefore, your bondsman, Lady Fabiola, 
instead of the Jew’s.” And he knelt humbly at her feet. 

“ Rise, rise,” said Fabiola, turning away her weeping eyes. 
“You are no bondsman of mine, but a dear brother in our 
common Lord.” 

Then sitting down with him, she said : “ Orontius, I have a 
1 The religious who lived in community, or common life, were so called. 


FABIOLA ; OR, 


320 

great favour to ask from you. Give me some account of how 
you were brought to that life, which you have so generously 
embraced.” 

“ I will obey you as briefly as possible. I fled, as you know, 
one sorrowful night from Rome, accompanied by a man ” — 
his voice choked him. 

“ I know, I know whom you mean — Eurotas,” interrupted 
Fabiola. 

“ The same, the curse of our house, the author of all mine 
and my dear sister’s sufferings. We had to charter a vessel at 
great expense from Brundusium, whence we sailed for Cyprus. 
We attempted commerce and various speculations, but all 
failed. There was manifestly a curse on all that we undertook. 
Our means melted away, and we were obliged to seek some 
other country. We crossed over to Palestine, and settled for a 
while at Gaza. Very soon we were reduced to distress ; every- 
body shunned us, we knew not why ; but my conscience told 
me that the mark of Cain was on my brow.” 

Orontius paused and wept for a time, then went on — 

“ At length, when all was exhausted, and nothing remained 
but a few jewels, of considerable price indeed, but with which, 
I knew not why, Eurotas would not part, he urged me to take 
up the odious office of denouncing Christians ; for a furious 
persecution was breaking out. For the first time in my life I 
rebelled against his commands, and refused to obey. One day 
he asked me to walk out of the gates ; we wandered far, till we 
came to a delightful spot in the midst of the desert. It was a 
narrow dell, covered with verdure, and shaded by palm-trees ; 
a little clear stream ran down, issuing from a spring in a rock 
at the head of the valley. In this rock we saw grottoes and 
caverns; but the place seemed uninhabited. Not a sound 
could be heard but the bubbling of the water. 

“We sat down to rest, when Eurotas addressed me in a 
fearful speech. The time was come, he told me, when we must 
both fulfil the dreadful resolution he had taken, that we must 
not survive the ruin of our family. Here we must both die ; 
the wild beasts would consume our bodies, and no one would 
know the end of its last representatives. 

“So saying, he drew forth two smaH flasks of unequal sizes, 
handed me the larger on., a r ' ..allowed the contents of the 
smaller. 

“ I refused to take it, and even reproached him for the dif- 
ference of our doses ; but he replied that he was old, and I 
young; and that they were proportioned to our respective 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 


321 

strengths. I still refused, having no wish to die. But a sort 
of demoniacal fury seemed to come over him ; he seized me 
with a giant’s grasp, as I sat on the ground, threw me on my 
back, and exclaiming, ‘ We must both perish together,’ forcibly 
poured the contents of the phial, without sparing me a drop, 
down my throat. 

“In an instant, I was unconscious; and remained so, till I 
awoke in a cavern, and faintly called for drink. A venerable old 
man, with a white beard, put a wooden bowl of water to my lips. 
* Where is Eurotas ? ’ I asked. ‘ Is that your companion ? ’ in- 
quired the old monk. ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘He is dead,’ was 
the reply. I know not by what fatality this had happened ; but 
I bless God with all my heart for having spared me. 

“ That old man was Hilarion, a native of Gaza, who, having 
spent many years with the holy Anthony in Egypt, had that 
year 1 returned to establish the cenobitic and eremitical life in 
his own country, and had already collected several disciples. 
They lived in the caves hard by, and took their refection under 
the shade of those palms, and softened their dry food in the 
water of that fountain. 

“ Their kindness to me, their cheerful piety, their holy lives, 
won on me as I recovered. I saw the religion which I had 
persecuted in a sublime form ; and rapidly recalled to mind the 
instructions of my dear mother, and the example of my sister ; 
so that yielding to grace, I bewailed my sins at the feet of God’s 
minister, 2 and received baptism on Easter-eve.” 

“Then we are doubly brethren, nay, twin children of the 
Church ; for I was born to eternal life also on that day. But 
what do you intend to do now ? ” 

“ Set out this evening on my return. I have accomplished 
the two objects of my journey. The first was to cancel my 
debt ; my second was to lay an offering on the shrine of Agnes. 
You will remember,” he added, smiling, “that your good father 
unintentionally deceived me into the idea that she coveted 
the jewels I displayed. Fool that I was ! But I resolved, after 
my conversion, that she should possess the best that remained 
in Eurotas’s keeping ; so I brought it to her.” 

“ But have you means for your journey ? ” asked the lady 
timidly. 

“ Abundant,” he replied, “ 7 -the charity of the faithful. I 
have letters from the Bishop of Jaza,' which procure me every- 

1 A.D. 303. 

2 Confession of sins in private was made before baptism. See Bingham, 
Origines , b. xi. ch. viii. § 14. 


X 


322 


FABIOLA J OR, 


where sustenance and lodging ; but I will accept from you a cup 
of water and a morsel of bread in the name of a disciple.” 

They rose, and were advancing towards the house, when a 
woman rushed madly through the shrubs, and fell at their feet, 
exclaiming, “ Oh, save me ! dear mistress, save me ! He is 
pursuing me, to kill me ! ” 

Fabiola recognised in the poor creature her former slave 
Jubala ; but her hair was grizzly and dishevelled, and her whole 
aspect bespoke abject misery. She asked whom she meant. 

“ My husband,” she replied ; “ long has he been harsh and 
cruel, but to-day he is more brutal than usual. Oh, save me 
from him ! ” 

“There is no danger here,” replied the lady; “but I fear, 
Jubala, you are far from happy. I have not seen you for a 
long, long time.” 

“ No, dear lady, why should I come to tell you of all my 
woes ? Oh ! why did I ever leave you and your house, where 
I ought to have been so happy? I might then with you, and 
Graja, and good old departed Euphrosyne, have learnt to be 
good myself and have embraced Christianity ! ” 

“What, have you really been thinking of this, Jubala?” 

“ For a long time, lady, in my sorrows and remorse. For I 
have seen how happy Christians are, even those who have been 
as wicked as myself. And because I hinted this to my husband 
this morning, he has beaten me, and threatened to take my 
life. But, thank God, I have been making myself acquainted 
with Christian doctrines through the teaching of a friend.” 

“ How long has this bad treatment gone on, Jubala ? ” asked 
Orontius, who had heard of it from his uncle. 

“ Ever,” she replied, “ since soon after marriage, I told him 
of an offer made to me previously, by a dark foreigner, named 
Eurotas. Oh ! he was indeed a wicked man, a man of black 
passions and remorseless villainy. Connected with him is my 
most racking recollection.” 

“ How was that ? ” asked Orontius, with eager curiosity. 

“ Why, when he was leaving Rome, he asked me to prepare 
for him two narcotic potions ; one for any enemy, he said, should 
he be taken prisoner. This was to be certainly fatal ; another 
had to suspend consciousness for a few hours only, should he 
require it for himself. When' he came for them, I was just going 
to explain to him, that, contrary to appearances, the small phial 
contained a fatally concentrated poison, and the large one a 
more diluted and weaker dose. But my husband came in at 
the moment, and in a fit of jealousy thrust me from the room. 


THE CHURCH OF THE CATACOMBS 323 

I fear some mistake may have been committed, and that un- 
intentional death may have ensued.” 

Fabiola and Orontius looked at one another in silence, won- 
dering at the just dispensations of Providence ; when they were 
aroused by a shriek from the woman. They were horrified 
at seeing an arrow quivering in her bosom. As Fabiola sup- 
ported her, Orontius, looking behind him, caught a glimpse of a 
black face grinning hideously through the fence. In the next 
moment a Numidian was seen flying away on his horse, with his 
bow bent Parthian-wise over his shoulder, ready for any pur- 
suer. The arrow had passed, unobserved, between Orontius 
and the lady. 

“ Jubala,” asked Fabiola, “dost thou wish to die a Christian? ” 

“ Most earnestly/’ she replied. 

“ Dost thou believe in One God in Three Persons ? ” 

“ I firmly believe in all the Christian Church teaches.” 

“And in Jesus Christ, who was born and died for our sins?” 

“Yes, in all that you believe.” The reply was more faint. 

“ Make haste, make haste, Orontius,” cried Fabiola, pointing 
to the fountain. 

He was already at its basin, filling full his two hands, and 
coming instantly, poured their contents on the head of the poor, 
African, pronouncing the words of baptism ; and, as she expired, 
the water of regeneration mingled with her blood of expiation. 

After this distressing, yet consoling scene, they entered the 
house, and instructed Torquatus about the burial to be given 
to this doubly baptized convert. 

Orontius was struck with the simple neatness of the house, 
so strongly contrasting with the luxurious splendour of Fabiola’s 
former dwelling. But suddenly his attention was arrested, in 
a small inner room, by a splendid shrine or casket, set with 
jewels, but with an embroidered curtain before it, so as to allow 
only the frame of it to be seen. Approaching nearer, he read 
inscribed on it, “The blood of the blessed Miriam, shed 

BY CRUEL HANDS ! ” 

Orontius turned deadly pale, then changed to a deep crimson, 
and almost staggered. 

Fabiola saw this, and going up to him kindly and frankly, 
placed her hand upon his arm, and mildly said to him, “ Oron- 
tius, there is that within, which may well make us both blush 
deeply, but not therefore despond.” 

So saying, she drew aside the curtain, and Orontius saw within 
a crystal plate, the embroidered scarf so much connected with 
his own and his sister’s history. Upon it were lying two sharp 


FABIOLA 


324 

weapons, the points of both which were rusted with blood. In 
one he recognised his own dagger ; the other appeared to him 
like one of those instruments of female vengeance with which 
he knew heathen ladies punished their attendant slaves. 

“We have both,” said Fabiola, “unintentionally inflicted a 
wound, and shed the blood of her whom we now honour as a 
sister in heaven. But for my part, from the day when I did so, 
and gave her occasion to display her virtue, I date the dawn 
of grace upon my soul. What say you, Orontius ? ” 

“That I, likewise, from the instant that I so misused her, 
and led to her exhibition of such Christian heroism, began to 
feel the hand of God upon me, that has led me to repentance 
and forgiveness.” 

“It is thus ever,” concluded Fabiola. “The example of our 
Lord has made the martyrs ; and the example of the martyrs 
leads us upwards to Him. Their blood softens our hearts ; 
His alone cleanses our souls. Theirs pleads for mercy ; His 
bestows it. May the Church, in her days of peace and of 
victories, never forget what she owes to the age of her martyrs. 
As for us two, we are indebted to it for our spiritual lives. 
May many, who will only read of it, draw from it the same 
* mercy and grace ! ” 

They knelt down, and prayed long together silently before 
the shrine. 

They then parted, to meet no more. 

After a few years, spent by Orontius in penitential fervour, 
a green mound by the palms, in the little dell near Gaza, marked 
the spot where he slept the sleep of the just. 

And after many years of charity and holiness, Fabiola with- 
drew to rest in peace, in company with Agnes and Miriam. 


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Castile — Margaret Roper — Marie de 1’ Incarnation — Margaret 
Bourgeoys — Ethan Allen’s Daughter. By Anna T. Sadlier. 
i2mo, 1 00 

WORDS OF JESUS CHRIST DURING HIS PASSION, Explained 
in their Literal and Moral Sense. By Rev. F. X. Schouppe, S.J. 
Flexible cloth, o 25 

WORDS OF WISDOM. A Concordance of the Sapiential Books. 

i2mo, net , 1 25 

WUEST, REV. JOSEPH, C.SS.R. Devotio Quadraghmta 
Horarum. 32mo, net , o 25 

YOUNG GIRL’S BOOK OF PIETY. i6mo, 1 00 

ZEAL IN THE WORK OF THE MINISTRY; or, The Means by 
which every Priest may render his Ministry Honorable and 
Fruitful. From the French of L’Abbe Dubois. 8vo, net , 1 50 


An American Industry. A full description of the Silversmith’s Art 
and Ecclesiastical Metalwork as carried on in Benziger Brothers' 
Factory of Church Goods, De Kalb Avenue and Rockwell Place, 
Brooklyn, N. Y. Small quarto, 48 pp., with 75 illustrations, 
printed in two colors. Mailed gratis on application. 

This interesting book gives a full description of the various arts 
employed in the manufacture of Church goods, from the designing 
and modelling, through the different branches of casting, spinning, 
chasing, buffing, gilding, and burnishing. The numerous beautiful 
half-tone illustrations show the machinery and tools used, as well as 
rich specimens of the work turned out. 

crc x6 


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